


Even the Odds

by morierblackleaf



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Gen, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 48
Words: 178,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morierblackleaf/pseuds/morierblackleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of mercenaries has learnt of an object that can turn mortals into immortals. Overhearing the mercenaries' plans, Aragorn intends to stop them but gets entangled in their schemes when the mercenaries kidnap an Elf to see their goals accomplished. Now, the Prince and Ranger must work together to stop the mercenaries from resurrecting an evil being and releasing a dark force to wreak havoc in Middle Earth.</p><p>This story contains threats of violence, violence, and one very non-graphic non-con scene. It is not a love story. It is a story of how Legolas and Aragorn first meet. </p><p>I own none of these characters and make no money from writing about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Fulton,_ thought Aragorn as he fingered idly the stitches on his long leather overcoat, _is by far the most unpleasant place I could spend this night._ Despite his misgivings, with a sigh and a minute tap of his foot upon the hindquarters of his horse, the Ranger began the ride down the incline that lead to Fulton. Sitting in the basin between several small mountains, the isolated town was accessible by winding roads often fraught with vagabonds, thus Aragorn had taken the direct route down the mountainside to avoid such trouble. After traveling without respite for several weeks, anywhere was better than the floor of the forest for sleeping tonight – even a place like Fulton.

His travels had taken him further south than he had traveled before. Although a Ranger, one of the Dúnedain, and unbeknownst to most, the rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, Aragorn was young in years. Experience, however, belied this lack of time spent in Middle Earth. His countenance was drawn and long with a few small scars and the thick bristle of beard decorating his face. The underlying hint of nobility that he exuded commanded respect regardless of the youth and handsomeness of his countenance, and once they had spoken to him, even those that distrusted his ragged appearance did not mistake him for the vagrant that he appeared.

 _I will only spend the night. Besides, it will be good to see human faces again, although what I would truly prefer to see,_ he told himself dryly, _are Elvish faces._ Having grown up among the Noldor of Imladris, he often felt more at home in the company of Elven kind, rather than human. _Of course, a few faces may not be so happy to see me. If Elladan and Elrohir ever get their hands on me..._ He didn’t bother to finish that thought, for he knew full well that his brothers by adoption would throttle him happily. As his mind turned to the memory of their response to his parting prank, he laughed aloud, drawing more than one openly suspicious glance his way from the bystanders on the main road through Fulton. _I hate to think of what revenge my brothers have concocted for my return!_

A few moments later, Aragorn stopped in front of what he knew to be the best inn in town, an opinion that didn’t mean much, given his choices. The wooden building was run down, to say the least, and dilapidated to be truthful. The foundation seemed to shake with the moving, raucous crowd within the place. Jumping down from his horse, Estel walked the loyal beast to the neighboring stable and handed the reins and a coin to the groom in attendance. Normally he might second-guess leaving his horse to a stable in a town like this, but Aragorn's horse would not let himself be easily stolen; so, with a fond pat upon the beast's nose, Estel instructed the groom to feed him well and left without worry. He hefted his pack onto his shoulder and braced himself mentally in preparation for the noise and smell before stepping into the inn’s foyer, which was also the busiest bar in town, from the looks of it.

More suspicious glares followed his progress from the door to the innkeeper’s counter, though Aragorn paid them no mind. If any were hostile, he could well handle himself. Still, he wished silently, _Please, Valar, no trouble this night. I only want to sleep._

The innkeeper, a thin, short man with what Aragorn decided had to be the ruddiest nose this side of the Misty Mountains, ceased his bickering with a bar wench to greet the Ranger with a smile that didn’t make it to his calculating eyes. “My name is Jimson, and this is my inn. What can I help you with, stranger?”

“I need supplies…” Aragorn listed the items he would need for his return trip to Imladris and watched while the man’s eyes grew large at the prospect of the coins earned from such a tall order. The Ranger had lost much traveling to Rohan, and even more while on his way back after running into an unpleasant band of Orcs who had taken him by surprise, and thus had forced him into leaving many of his supplies at his overrun campsite.

“It will take some time to gather these items, good stranger. Will you be staying the night? We’ve plenty of room. What about dinner?” The innkeeper’s eyes now gleamed as if Aragorn were a pile of mithril waiting to be plundered.

“Yes, both room and dinner, please, and a mug of ale, as well.”

“Good, good! Just have a seat and Marie here will bring it right over.”

Aragorn chose a table away from the most boisterous part of the crowd with his back to the wall and his hood pulled down to hide his features. _This town hasn’t changed much,_ he pondered as he awaited his ale. The last time the Ranger had come this way, the town was much as it was now; that is, filled with ne’er-do-wells and thieves whose bad luck had left them penniless and stranded in the crumbling remnants of what used to be, from what he could tell of what was left of it, a quaint town. Any moral people who had once resided here had been driven out, leaving only the destitute and desperate; a mixture that oft incited violence and rashness in the stupid ones, and cunning from those with the intelligence to try their thieving hands at plotting.

The curiosity his appearance had provoked went unchecked. Few strangers ventured into Fulton and even fewer ever made it out. Soon after the bar maid set down his mug, the other patrons appeared to lose interest in him when a small fight broke out at a table across the way. As chairs were smashed and a table upturned, the innkeeper leapt over the counter with sword in hand and a grace unbefitting a man of his stature or age, and dispelled the two drunken fighters. When some semblance of peace was restored, the Ranger was all but forgotten.

 _Just a few more weeks and I’ll be back home. Back to Ada, back to Elrohir and Elladan, back to my bed. Just a few more weeks and then I will not leave my bed for a month._ Ever watchful, he sipped his ale slowly while casting his gaze around the room. His tired mind wandered back to the prank he had pulled on his brothers. They would never forgive or forget this one – not that they usually did. _No, they always find their revenge. If only I could have seen their faces when they discovered it, instead of just hearing their screams of outrage._

Aragorn grinned to himself. He also hadn’t been there for the aftermath. The twins were notorious in Imladris for pulling relatively good-natured pranks on everyone else when Aragorn wasn’t around to withstand the worst of their weird humor. Had they not been the sons of one of the most respected and powerful Elven Lords in Middle Earth, the twins would have been strangled long ago by one of the servants, tutors, or many citizens of Imladris.

 _Luckily, though,_ he told himself, _I am here in Fulton, where it is safe._ The Ranger had to stifle weary and cynical laughter at his own facetiousness. _Fulton? Safe? I must be losing my senses. I’ve spent too much time by myself._

The loud voice of an egregiously drunken farmer broke Aragorn’s reverie. “It’s no lie! I’ve heard about it from my old man, and he never was one to tell a lie! Are you calling my old man a liar?” The drunk’s voice increased with his outrage at whoever had doubted his father’s veracity. “It’s true, I tell ya. If we had it, we could wipe them Elves clean out of these lands, fight ‘em fair. Ain’t no fair fighting someone who can’t die as easy as us, I say. If we had it, we could kill the whole lot of ‘em. And I know where it is, and it could make me a rich man one day. Lotsa people would pay for a chance to drink from it.”

At the mention of the Elves, Aragorn clenched his jaw, his frustration at the ignorance of humans concerning the Eldar making the Ranger's mood darken. Hatred for the Firstborn among the race of men ran rampant, though not for any particular wrong committed against men as a whole, but more from lack of understanding of the reclusive race.

The old drunk fell down in his chair and people turned back to their conversations or ale, ignoring the man’s continued, although much less vociferous plea that he was indeed telling the truth. The Ranger watched as a lanky man from a table near where the drunk had been sitting sidled up to the farmer, catching the man by his soil-stained tunic, and with a feral grin, told the drunk, “I believe you, old timer. Why don’t you come sit over here? My brother and me, we’d like to hear this tale you’ve been spinning.”

The farmer stood with a grunt. “At least some around these parts can respect the knowledge of their elders.”

An onlooker at the farmer’s table claimed, “Elder don’t mean better, you old fool.”

Before the drunken orator could respond, the lanky stranger had pulled him away from the table and coincidentally much closer to where Aragorn was seated. He could now see that the stranger had shockingly red hair that bushed out from under his cloak’s hood in a torrent of flaming spirals. Had the man not also looked like a mercenary, Aragorn might have thought the hair a bit comical, but the stranger’s demeanor showed that his business was shady, and his hair was comical only to those who hadn’t yet learned to fear the cut of his blade.

The red haired stranger and farmer sat down next to a burly, mountainous man. _This is his brother? They look nothing alike!_ Aragorn knew that this didn’t mean much, especially considering he didn’t look anything like his own, albeit adopted brothers.

“My name’s Ament and this is my brother, Ramlin,” offered the lanky fellow to the farmer. The farmer, on the other hand, was looking around him as if he had misplaced something. “What is it, old timer? What're you looking for?” Ament was a little miffed, it seemed, to be ignored.

“Where’s me drink? I’ve lost it," the older man said, throwing his hands up in the air and then slapping them against his thighs in disturbance.

Ament sneered at the farmer, who did not notice, and then ordered of his brother, “Ramlin, go get the nice fellow here another ale.”

Ramlin looked less than pleased at being bossed around but complied to his brother’s orders all the same. When he stood, Aragorn could tell that the man would be formidable in a fight. His hair was a much darker shade of Ament’s, hung in greasy strands about his face, and might have been curly, had it been washed. _Why do I get the feeling I would have been better off in the forest?_ he thought, feeling a niggling sense of doom at ever having seen these two strangers' faces.

“Now, come, tell me, you say you know where to find the witch’s goblet. Where is it?” asked Ament in a loud whisper. “I've heard tell that you knew of where to find it, and my brother and I came a very long way just to speak to you.”

Obviously, the farmer was a shrewd businessman under his ale-induced haze, and somewhat suspicious as well that his newfound friend knew of him. He huffed a time or two, sitting back in his chair as if prepared to start haggling and feeling as if he'd the upper hand. “A long way? Who's told you this?” The drunken farmer huffed a time more, getting succinctly to his real concern, asking, “What’s in it for me?”

“Why, me and Ramlin here have the same goals that you do. We hate them Elves, the nasty creatures. We’d like nothing more than to bring that goblet back here and start a revolt against the pointy-eared animals. They’ve done nothing but make it hard for good people like us to get by. Imagine what we could do with all the wealth they’ve hoarded for themselves! Come now, we’re in this together.”

Aragorn couldn’t believe his ears. _If the old farmer falls for this insincere ploy, I’ll kiss a Warg._

He then smiled briefly to himself when the farmer answered, "What? I tell you, and then I’d never see you again, nor any of the profits. I ain’t that daft, young one. Besides, I ain't ever seen the goblet. It's a story me pa told us.”

_And a good thing you didn't fall for it, too. Wargs are not the friendliest creatures to court._

Ramlin returned with the old man’s ale. The farmer snatched the cup from the mammoth mercenary's hands and gulped the amber liquid greedily, perhaps afraid that his noncompliance to Ament's offer would force his new friends to take their alcoholic gift away. After most of the ale was gone, Ament nodded slightly to his brother. Ramlin moved his chair closer to the farmer’s seat and put a mighty arm around the drunk’s shoulders, weighing them down with his heavily muscled limb. The Ranger’s view was blocked from seeing either Ramlin or Ament by this change in seating, but he could still see the farmer.

“We give you our word, isn’t that enough?” Ament responded, his words deathly sweet. Their word wasn’t enough, more than likely, but from the terrified look on the farmer’s face, it would have to be if he cared to drink another pint in his life.

“Now,” Ament asked, his voice pleasant in contrast to the farmer's fear, “how would your pa ever have known about the witch's goblet?”

“He used to travel to Laketown from here.” Settling his cup carefully upon the table, the farmer appeared for a moment as if he would flee, but Ramlin's falsely congenial hold of his shoulders kept him seated. “He heard all sorts of stories from there and everywhere in between about the witch, but him and his own pa and the merchant convoy he rode with were set upon by the witch's fiends, where half of them died trying to fight while the rest were trussed up and taken to some vile place.”

Ament was nodding to himself as if the farmer's story matched up to something the mercenary had knowledge of already. He settled back into his chair, and as Aragorn watched, the lanky stranger snorted. “And he saw the goblet himself? He saw the witch?”

Growing paler by the second, the farmer began to ramble again in explanation, now afraid, it seemed, that if the pair he'd sat down with didn't believe his story, he'd be in bigger trouble than if he hadn't told them to begin. “The witch was dying, was why the Orc had caught them, to appease their master, but they needed an Elf, right? So they began slaughtering the merchants just for sport. My father's pa didn't make it out nor any of the others, but my pa did. He was just a kid, and the rest made sure he got the chance to run, although they all died for it. He used to tell us that likely the witch was dead before my pa even made it out of the forest, as sick as the witch was, and that there would still be all that gold and treasure down there, with the goblet as well, and none but he knew where it was because he was the only one to live to tell the tale.”

Ramlin finally raised his arm from where it hung about the farmer's shoulders. “And where is it, then?”

Picking up his mug again, the farmer fiddled with it a few moments, until Ramlin and Ament both leant in close to the farmer. Without even being touched or threatened, the farmer conceded, “Ah, boys, I’ll tell ya. No need to get riled up about it. I’m too old to go get it myself. You boys promise you’ll get rid of all them Elves, and I’ll tell you.”

As the two brothers sat back once more, Aragorn could see that Ament’s feral grin had returned. “Of course we promise. The Goblet of Melfren would be put to good use in ridding us of those damned Elves.”

 _Melfren? I hope this old fool is joking._ Aragorn recognized the fabled goblet from stories that his Ada, Lord Elrond, used to tell him at bedtime when he was a child, and his mild interest in their story became avid. He knew the information Lord Elrond gave him about it was accurate because the Elf Lord was a renowned lore master, but Estel's memory was hazy on the details. _The powerful witch Melfren created it…but for what? If they truly know where it is, then indeed the Elves may be in trouble._

As the farmer began to impart the whereabouts of the goblet in secret, pointing out the location on a map Ament pulled from his pocket, the barmaid brought Aragorn’s dinner to him, effectively, although unknowingly, making him miss the important information with her call, “How’s the ale, stranger?” Slapping the plate of food on the table noisily, she added, “Here’s your dinner. If you be needing anything else, just come to the bar.”

The plate of bread and cheese reminded Aragorn of why he was here. He needed supplies. He needed a good night’s rest. He needed… _I need answers. I’ll not get any rest until I am sure that these men have not discovered the goblet._ He was lost as to what to do, though. As much as he hated to, he would have to find out what was going on: he couldn’t leave Fulton with a clear conscience otherwise. Too many Elven lives, lives with which he was personally acquainted, could be affected by this Darkly created goblet. With an inward groan and all thoughts of rest pushed to the farthest reaches of his mind, he moved to grab a chunk of cheese and returned his attention to the brothers’ table.

The farmer downed the dregs of his ale and moved to get up. Ramlin’s meaty fist on his forearm stopped the farmer. “Look now, _friend,_ don’t go telling anyone else what you’ve told us. Stop your gibbering here in the bar, and if you have lied, you'll be very sorry, right?” Ament’s face was inches from the farmer’s horrified visage as he spoke.

“No, no. Wouldn’t dream of it. Kept this secret my whole life. Made a promise to my pa. Gods' honest truth!”

“Looks like you just broke that promise, fool,” replied Ramlin, who removed his impediment to allow the farmer to leave, and then guffawed as if he had quoted Middle Earth’s greatest joke.

The farmer had the mind to look somewhat shamefaced at Ramlin’s comment, but nodded and hurried away, stumbling over anything and anyone in his haste to make it out of the inn. Aragorn would have liked to follow him for questioning but knew it would surely arouse the suspicions of Ament and Ramlin. Perhaps no one else in the bar had ever paid the farmer's stories any mind, but these two mercenaries had cause to believe him. If the farmer's story was indeed true, then trouble was brewing. Melfren had been one of the Dark Lord's human sorcerers, fashioning for his master creatures and items of power to be used by the Dark One's forces in their effort to embattle and overtake Middle Earth. That Melfren was dead was believed, as no one had seen or heard from him in years, but none had ever found the terrible cache of weapons and wealth Melfren had hidden.

“Go get us a room, Ramlin.” The huge mercenary, for his part, looked ready to protest his brother’s order. “Now, idiot,” Ament hissed. Ramlin ambled to the counter.

Aragorn was relieved, for at least he would get to sleep in a bed tonight. He would just have to be sure that he was up and ready to follow the brothers in the morning. _Which means I won't sleep at all because I will be too worried that these Elf-haters will leave without me._

With a grimace of annoyance, the Ranger teased himself sarcastically, _I could just ask them where they are headed. Wouldn’t that be easier?_ Following the two brothers could lead him anywhere. He couldn’t think of any other way to ascertain the veracity of their intentions, however. Suddenly, the opportunity presented itself.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The usual chatter of the forest had ceased. All was eerily still. _Better take to the trees,_ thought Legolas Greenleaf, son of King Thranduil. _The trees tell of no one around but I feel a sense of foreboding nonetheless. Perhaps the scouting party I am looking for is near._

However comforting the thought, Prince Legolas knew that the forest would not quiet due to the presence of the Wood-Elves. The Silvan were the keepers of Eryn Galen, its champions against the encroaching darkness, and the trees were more likely to increase their chatter than fall silent if Wood-Elves were near.

 _Still, no point in taking any chances._ In a swift motion, the Elf had swung himself up into the lower branches of a poplar tree and took rest there for a moment. Legolas straightened the quiver of arrows on his back so that they wouldn’t catch on the limbs as he passed through the canopy of the forest. His lithe form moved with serpentine fluidity as he bounded from limb to limb, closer, he hoped, to where the scouting party was supposed to be camped. Although not his normal duty, Legolas had offered to take message from his father to the outlying camps as a means of relieving himself of his own Princely duties. Besides which, it was his belief that being out amongst his fellow warriors, doing the mundane tasks that they did, also, would show that their Prince did not believe himself better merely because of his station.

To any creature below, the Wood-Elf would have been practically invisible, for his tunic and leggings blended in with the forest perfectly, as intended. His golden hair shone in the sunlight, matching Anor's color and radiance. The creature was beautiful, and cherished among his people for this beauty, yet more importantly, the Elf Prince was admired for his abilities as a warrior. In Mirkwood, all were warriors in some way in the fight against the darkness tainting the forest and the creatures therein, and since the time Legolas had reached his majority he had been fighting spiders, Orcs, and other tools of the Dark One without pause. His talent with the bow was unsurpassable, and his aptitude as a strong and fierce warrior made the Silvan Elves proud to call him their Prince.

As Legolas neared his destination, his feeling of impending doom only increased. _I must hurry! What if the scouting party needs help?_ He wouldn’t forgive himself if his dawdling had created problems for his fellow Elves. With urgency, he slipped back to the forest floor without sound and ran headlong towards the camp, light of foot amongst the roots and brush. Not more than a few feet later, Legolas heard before he felt the great jaws of a hunting trap close about his leg. In wonderment, the Elda found himself flying through the air with the momentum of his running. The colors of the forest merged as he tumbled onto the ground, giving him no clue as to what was occurring, before he was pulled abruptly to a halt by the weight of the trap – with this violent recoil came the pain.

 _Ai Valar!_ Legolas lay face down in the leaves and forest debris. Not yet aware of what held him, Legolas twisted his torso rapidly to sit, holding his long sword drawn to ward off his attacker. The twist of his body also twisted his leg, and despite himself, the Elf yelped in response to the intensity of the pain. Looking quickly to his injured leg, Legolas was more than surprised to find that his leg from below his knee was entrapped in a steel cage whose jaws were rimmed in sharp teeth. _What in the name of the One is a trap such as this doing in the forests of Eryn Galen?_

Replacing his weapon in its sheath on his quiver, Legolas inched himself closer to the trap, intending not to stretch his leg any more than necessary in the hopes of reducing further injury. _Ada will kill me. I was only supposed to take orders to the scouting party._ His father had not been pleased that Legolas wished to go out into the forest alone, and his coming back injured would only prove that Thranduil was right.

When he was within reaching distance of the mechanism of the trap, he attempted to pry the teeth apart with his hands, to maneuver his fingers between the teeth or jaws of the maleficent device so that he could widen its mouth to slide his leg free, but the jaws would not budge. As he found that impossible, he looked for a switch or release, but found nothing that would aid him in removing the device. The trap was, in effect, trapped around his leg. _I will never live this down. Caught in an animal trap in my own home._

The pain was unbearable. Moreover, the bleeding from Legolas’ leg was steady and not likely to stop, for the teeth of the device dug deeply into his flesh. If he didn’t get the trap off, he wouldn’t be able to tend to the bleeding. He considered trying to walk back to the palace, or even to the camp, but knew that the wound would only be aggrieved by such rash action. _Besides,_ the Prince thought to himself as he inspected the remainder of the trap more closely, _it appears to be chained to the tree. Why would anyone seek to trap an animal this way? What kind of animal could they have been trying to catch?_

Only a few minutes had passed but Legolas was growing alarmed from more than just his injuries. Plenty of Elves knew where he was and when they should expect him back. Should he not return on time, the King would send Elves out searching for him. _I do not want anyone to find me like this,_ he told himself stubbornly, _but I guess that’s preferable to staying the night in the forest._ This thought only increased his panic. He was caught in a trap in one of the most tainted parts of Mirkwood, injured, and virtually unable to defend himself since he could not stand to fight. Dark, silvery red blood was flowing freely from between the teeth of the trap.

Legolas' sharp Elven hearing caught a rustling in the leaves behind him. Unable to stand to see, he picked himself off the ground with his hands and dragged himself bit by bit closer to the underbrush. The footsteps did not appear to be Elven because of how loud they were, and it did not seem as if the source was trying to be particularly stealthy. _Where has my bow gone?_ The beautifully crafted weapon, Legolas saw, had been thrown from the catch on his quiver and now lay too far away to reach. _Cowering in the bushes like a rabbit. This had better be someone from the camp. At least then, I can command him to keep his mouth shut about this._ As the footsteps approached, the Prince’s foreboding returned full force. _As if this weren’t bad enough... this couldn’t get any worse._ Again, he tried frantically to remove the trap from his leg, tearing the skin on his fingers in his effort, but to no avail – the jaws would not loosen.

“Well, well. Looks like I caught something wild.”

In his efforts to be free, and though realizing the footsteps were growing closer, the Elf had lost track of how close they had come until he now found himself face to face with a foul looking man. The hunter, if that was indeed what he was, was covered from head to toe in dark clothing, though the black cloth was encrusted with maculate stains of what could be blood or red clay mud. Legolas could not see the hunter’s face due to the hood the human wore.

“It would seem so, Master Human. Perhaps you could lend a hand.” The Wood-Elf decided to try to be as congenial as possible. In his current situation, he could do nothing less.

It burned him to ask the man for help. However, he could not stay like this, and when he was freed, the man would pay for trespassing in Eryn Galen and for laying the trap that had injured her Prince. _No doubt, this Adan is from Laketown. He ought to know better._ _No hunting is allowed in these parts of the forest. The game here is poisonous._

“I could lend a hand, _Master Elf_ ,” the man said with derision, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t think I will, however.”

The Prince shifted painfully on the ground, his unease mounting. “You seem to be unaware that you are in an Elven kingdom, and that such a trespass carries a harsh sentence.”

“I am more than aware, Elf, of where I am and what I am doing. Looks like you could have been paying closer attention.” The man snorted in laughter while Legolas was quickly becoming angrier.

“This is your trap?”

“It is.”

“And what kind of prey were you hoping to catch with this?” The man still stood in place, not having moved toward Legolas at all. Besides anger, Legolas was also beginning to feel his unease turn to anxiety: the human hunter wasn’t planning to help him.

“You’ll do.”

 _I guess that answers what kind of animal this trap was intended for,_ Legolas thought despondently. The blood loss from his leg wound was making him dizzy, and the mindless banter was irritating. He could not have been bleeding for more than ten minutes, and the flow, while potentially life threatening, hadn't yet relieved him of enough claret to cause the dizziness he felt. _Why am I so nauseous?_

“Why do you not fight fair, then? Remove these teethed jaws. Even wounded I would best you.” Legolas knew better than to believe such a taunt would work though he hoped it would.

The hunter only laughed. “I am not so dim that I would attempt to fight a Wood-Elf. I will just wait.”

Legolas shook his head, willing the darkness to fade from his vision. “Wait for what? My fellow Elves to find you?”

“For the poison to finish its work, Elf. Once you are out cold, we’ll be on our way.”

All hope that the man might help him, or at least be stupid enough to remove the trap, was now gone. Swiftly, he pulled his long knife from its sheath on his quiver, intending to throw it at the hunter. _It is better that he be dead and hope someone will find me than to be taken,_ the Prince decided. But before he could pull his knife free a sharp pain in his leg disrupted his movement, and instead of flinging the knife expertly at the hunter, it fell to the ground several feet away from the man. Legolas grabbed the teethed jaws about his leg, trying to stifle a cry at the throbbing in his limb as the trap was jerked.

“Can’t believe this worked, Meika!”

Whirling his head towards the sound of another voice, the Elf was surprised to see another human, but his world did not stop spinning when his body ceased moving. Legolas could feel himself slipping into darkness, into unconsciousness. _Stay awake,_ he told himself. He could not be unconscious in the presence of these men.

“And they say it’s hard to catch an Elf! Boss’s plan worked without us even having to lure him towards one of the traps.” The new voice’s owner held the chain to the trap in his hand. He gave another sharp tug. “Went and caught himself, he did.”

“Careful now, Jalian, don’t want to make him bleed too much. Boss said not to hurt him too bad. Wait till all’s done, then maybe you can have some fun.”

Legolas managed to rasp out, falling back onto the ground from vertigo, “With what have you poisoned me?”

“Not to worry, Elfling,” Jalian said, “we’ve got plans for you. Or rather, the boss has plans for you. Don’t worry, you’ll live.”

“For a while yet,” laughed Meika, as his companion joined in his amusement.

 _I must have my eyes closed,_ the Elf thought as his weary head, too heavy for him to keep upright any longer, hit the ground with a thud. He was not yet unconscious, however, and could hear the men; he just couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open or to focus on their movements or speech. _I cannot be taken by these men._ Images of the horrors that the oft-bigoted race of humans had foisted upon the Elves ran through his mind, stories of slavery, torture, and death he had heard came to him. _They won’t make it out of the forest. The scouting camp is expecting me, and when I don’t meet them, the whole of Eryn Galen will be out looking for me._ When the Prince finally convinced his lids to open once more, he saw that the humans seemed less than petrified at the prospect of any oncoming Elves. Their blurry forms advanced on the archer with caution, but as the poison had worked its effect at immobilization, they did not hesitate for long, and Meika bound Legolas’ hands while Jalian unlocked the trap with a key from his tunic's pocket.

The Prince could feel his body being moved, yet it seemed distant, as if he weren’t really there; that is, until the pain of the device’s removal hit him. He couldn’t shout for help. He couldn’t even cry out from the pain, if his pride had not been too great to prevent him from doing so anyway. With an uncaring shove, Jalian threw Legolas’ leg to the ground. Finally, the agony was too much, and as one of the men grabbed him, slinging him carelessly over his shoulder, the Elf gave way to the darkness and knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

Ramlin walked to the innkeeper’s counter, muttering curses under his breath. _I’m his brother, not his slave._ For most of Ramlin’s life, he had been nothing more than his brother’s thug: he followed his older brother’s orders and endured his constant insults because Ament was his only family, and despite the constant abuse, the younger sibling loved his older brother. _This foolish scheme he has cooked up will be death of me. Of all things, trying to be an immortal. And Ament calls_ me _the idiot._

The innkeeper’s cheery attitude wilted under Ramlin’s glare, and Jimson cowered to comply with the mercenary's requests. After negotiating a room for the night, Ramlin returned to his brother’s table only to spot a man enshrouded in the darkest corner of the bar staring openly in his brother’s direction, although Ament seemed unaware of the ogling stranger. _Being a thug ain’t so bad all the time,_ he thought, as he leant over their table to confer with his older sibling. _At least I get to have a little fun every now and then._

“Ament. Did you notice the stranger in the corner? He seems very interested in us." Waiting the moment it took for Ament to spare a carefully disinterested glance in the stranger's direction, the younger sibling added, "Perhaps he needs a lesson in manners?”

Ramlin was confident that his brother would allow him this diversion. Despite his earlier harsh words, Ament encouraged Ramlin’s perverse desire to inflict pain; it had helped in the past when necessary, and for the most part, Ament benefited from it. The younger human had hoped the grimy farmer would have been less forthcoming in providing them with the information they sought, such that his talent for persuading the reticent to reveal their secrets would be needed. The desire to inflict pain welled within Ramlin, needing an outlet. Besides, Ramlin knew that his brother’s scowl was a guise – Ament’s mood was lightened from the task for which they had come to Fulton. The farmer's story had been convincing and the whereabouts of the goblet had been obtained easier than expected. Tomorrow they would set out to meet the men Ament had persuaded to accompany them on its quest.

Ament’s eyebrow quirked in amusement, a light smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he played with the empty cup left by the farmer on their table. “I suppose the stranger needs a lesson in manners, brother. Just do not get us thrown into jail. I need no trouble this night... not if we want to leave in the morning.”

Gleefully grinning his anticipation, Ramlin told his brother, pretending to be affronted at the suggestion that he would cause trouble, “Of course not, brother, I only wish to impress upon the stranger that it is not polite to stare.”

Again, Ament’s eyebrow quirked, and he then shook his head in dismissal. “Go then and have your fun.” Smirking at Ament’s choice of words, Ramlin stalked over to the darkened corner.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Oh Valar. What does this oaf want?_ Aragorn knew he hadn’t been attentive to Ramlin’s return, as he had been staring while thinking, but he hadn’t thought he had drawn any attention to himself. _He looks very angry._ The Ranger suddenly wished that he were facing the wrath of his brothers instead – though they may have throttled him, they would not have killed him out of fear of their father’s wrath. _This one looks like he kills for fun._

But the Adan remained seated, and for any who saw him, Estel was ostensibly calm. He knew that if given no other choice he could likely take the man in a fight; however, Aragorn's opportunity to follow the brothers would be lost, and he might never learn the reliability of the farmer’s information. He could not justify to his conscience killing them outright without cause, and so could not stop them just to pacify his worries of what might happen with a goblet that may or may not exist where some farmer said it might be.

Ramlin was fast approaching the table, giving Aragorn naught but seconds to decide how to cope with the furious mercenary. The choice was made quickly when Ramlin, without a word of censure or reasoning for his attack, lunged at the Ranger. Aragorn moved with an unerring ease that years of mimicking his graceful Elven brothers had taught him. Standing and moving to his right in one fluid motion, he avoided the outthrust, barreling hand of the enraged brother before it slammed into its target – Aragorn's face.

Ramlin's body followed through with his fist's miss, stumbling forward and into the table as he tried to recover his useless punch. His balance was completely thrown; the mercenary lay half on the table, half dangling precariously over the edge, and the man's hands awkwardly sought purchase on the rickety wooden table’s rough surface to keep him from falling onto the floor. The enclosed area Aragorn had been sitting in was not an asset if the Ranger needed his sword, so Estel stepped into the open space directly in front of the table. He was loathe to put his back to the other brother, yet he didn’t detect any movement, much less hostility, when he glanced hurriedly back at Ament to check the fiery-haired mercenary's movements.

Several of the patrons had noticed the confrontation and were guffawing at Ramlin’s bumbling antics. _Now he’ll not only be mad, but embarrassed. Great,_ Aragorn mused sarcastically to himself, his attention divided between the two brothers as he waited for another attack. _How will I get out of this unscathed?_

Ramlin had fully righted himself and was making another move towards Aragorn when the innkeeper began shouting from the counter for them to cease or else be thrown out. The Ranger had barely enough time to evade the mercenary’s enormous fist once again. He sidestepped the attempt and placed himself behind Ramlin. Aragorn’s opponent had strength but lacked the speed to match the Ranger’s swiftness. Ramlin recovered well this time, however, and turned to Aragorn with an incensed look.

“Out of here! Both of you!” The innkeeper held his sword threateningly out towards Aragorn and Ramlin when he finally reached the altercation. “You can’t stay here tonight, either.” At this, he dug into his apron, pulled out several coins, and threw them in Aragorn and Ramlin’s general direction in refund of what they had paid to rent their rooms. Neither man bent down to retrieve them. “You can get your supplies now, they’re ready,” the innkeeper told the Ranger pointedly. "And then you leave."

“Come, brother, we’ve much to do,” Ament chastised from where he sat. “Let us go.” Ramlin took a step towards Aragorn, who hadn’t moved but remained ready for another assault. In a quiet, threatening tone, Ament told his brother, “We leave, _now_.” At this, Ramlin complied, eying the Ranger warily as he moved to where his brother was seated. Aragorn noted the look of frustration Ramlin gave Ament, and Ament's complete lack of reaction to it.

_The big one was obviously looking forward to a little bloodshed._

Ament stood, his scowl intact, and strode to the entrance with Ramlin in tow.

After collecting his supplies from the angered innkeeper, Aragorn exited the bar out onto the street, fully expecting Ramlin and Ament to be waiting there for him. He was not disappointed. The sound of heavy footsteps to his left were the only warning that Aragorn had of Ramlin’s underhanded attack, and with the mercenary’s pounce upon his back, both supply laden Ranger and oversized oaf went down to the dusty main road of Fulton, a road that was thankfully deserted of horse traffic at this time of night.

Ramlin righted himself from his sprawl across Aragorn’s body, straddling the Ranger to hold him down. “Not quite as light on your feet when you are lying on your back, are you, stranger? Perhaps you’d like to explain why my brother and I were of such interest to you?”

 _Quickly, Estel, think of something to tell them._ Aragorn hadn’t the breath to answer. _If this brute ever gets off me long enough so that I can breathe properly, I may live yet._ His panting wasn’t lost on Ament, who had moved towards the prostrate form his brother held down.

“Ramlin, give him air. You can kill him in a minute,” he snorted to his brother, a humored but malevolent grin on his face. “Let me get an answer out of him first, you fool.” Reluctantly, Ramlin relented, allowing Aragorn to take in a full breath. Ament leant down towards Estel while assessing his appearance. “What is your name?”

“Strider,” Aragorn replied, giving a name he was known by in other, further locations he had traveled, and hoping to ameliorate his dire situation through cooperation. _Perhaps I can convince them that I meant no harm. Or perhaps they will kill me whether I meant harm or not,_ thought Aragorn despairingly.

“And are you a Ranger, Strider? I have seen a Ranger wear a coat such as this one.” Ament’s look of malicious humor was growing in intensity.

Aragorn hesitated, glancing around in hopes of finding a way out of this. No bystanders were watching; in fact, none of the miscreant inhabitants of the town appeared to be out on the street this late at night. _Not that any in Fulton would be of help, anyway._

The Adan’s attention was returned abruptly to the crazed man straddling his chest when Ramlin snatched a handful of Estel's hair and thumped the Ranger’s head against the ground. “My brother asked you a question,” Ramlin growled.

Attempting to appear insulted at the prospect of being a Ranger and trying to ignore the protest of his head at the mistreatment, Aragorn responded impulsively, “Nay, I am no Ranger. I took this coat from one.”

“A Ranger would not willingly give up his coat. They are accustomed to a hard life, and a coat like that serves them well. I think you lie.” Ament turned to his brother and then turned away, standing and obviously now disinterested in Aragorn's fate, “Ramlin, he’s impolite _and_ he lies," the red-haired mercenary glibly stated, "a losing combination. Slit his throat.”

“Happy to oblige, brother.” Ramlin reached for the dagger in his boot, unintentionally allowing Aragorn more freedom than he should have. Recognizing the opportunity, the Ranger pulled his arms free from the grasp of the brother’s mammoth hand and twisted his upper body to unbalance the mercenary. As Ramlin strove to maintain his poise, Aragorn kicked out with his legs, which further unbalanced his attacker and allowed Estel to disentangle himself enough to dart from Ramlin’s grasp. Aragorn scrambled away quickly, pulled out his own dagger from his boot, and prepared for the oncoming assault.

“Ramlin! Can you not even kill a defenseless man?” Ament stood sneering at Aragorn while Ramlin regained his footing in haste, dagger in hand.

For the moment, Ramlin’s ire seemed focused on his sibling, rather than Aragorn. “He is hardly defenseless, brother. But if you would like to do better, then I give you my leave to try.” Ament sniggered in response and made no move towards Aragorn, but instead glared at his brother as if Ramlin were the cause of his bitter temperament.

 _This is obviously an argument that they have had before, from the looks of it. At this rate, I will never be able to trail them._ Thinking rapidly, Aragorn decided he might do well to continue lying to the brothers. _If I can’t follow them, perhaps I can join them._

“I did not mean to raise your suspicions, strangers. I only overheard the fool farmer yelling about the cursed Elves, and my interest in you is only that you sought to destroy them, a feat that I myself would like to see achieved.” Aragorn could hardly coerce his mouth to tell the lie.

Ament laughed derisively and crossed his arms over his chest, saying, “You, too, wish to see Elves destroyed? Why? What have they done to you?” Ramlin still glowered at his brother, hardly paying Aragorn any attention.

The Ranger was momentarily at a loss. His talent at lying was limited, as his brothers had so often shown him when he tried to finagle his way out of responsibility for some prank or misdeed he had committed. “The Elves have caused me much grief. They allowed my family to die from their negligence, and...” Aragorn faltered. He was beginning to feel nauseous from his betrayal. He thought back to the brothers and farmer’s conversation to find some common ground on which to base his prevarication. “And besides, they’ve great wealth hoarded away. They’ve been the cause of the decline of men with their conceited attitudes.” The Ranger fought to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

Ramlin and Ament simultaneously burst aloud in jovial laughter, throwing each other amused grins before turning their roguish smiles to Aragorn. _This is more disconcerting than their fury._

“You would seek to join us? To help destroy the Elves?” Ament’s amusement was obvious, as was his disbelief. “We’ve no need for another thief or a liar. We've plenty enough.”

“I am no thief. I didn’t say I stole this coat, stranger. I took it from a seasoned Ranger after besting him.” _At least this much is true. They don’t need to know it was won on a bet made on a skirmish, and that the Ranger is a friend of mine._ “I would be a valuable asset to you.”

“Come brother, it is as you’ve said. We’ve no need for him. Let me kill him," Ramlin pled in what was nearly a disappointed whine.

“No, Ramlin.” Ament scowled at Aragorn, his amusement vanishing though it belied his saying, “You are lucky I am in a good mood. You may join us. Perhaps we could use you. We are meeting up with more like-minded individuals tomorrow. A motley lot, to be sure, but I assume you can take care of yourself.”

Aragorn only nodded, for he was too stunned that his shoddy plan had succeeded thus far. Seething with anger in having his prey released from him, Ramlin replaced his dagger with a sneer. _I will not be able to sleep for some time it seems. This one will have my head,_ Aragorn mused. The three men still stood in a triangle in the center of the main thoroughfare of Fulton, and not yet had anyone else passed by. The moon was almost halfway through its nightly journey.

“Strider, you say? Well, this is my brother, Ramlin, and I am Ament. You may travel with us as long as you are not a liability. If you become one, you die. However, if you follow my orders, you will be aptly rewarded at the end of our journey. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” Aragorn replied in relief.

“Good. It is no use in getting a room at this hour. We will travel on to the meeting place.” Ament walked towards the stable, with a sulking Ramlin not far behind, while Aragorn maintained his distance from the two but followed.

_I hope I can keep this farce up long enough to find out where we are going and what we are truly after._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Elf stretched his long legs out in front of him carefully, feeling the strain of the torn muscles in his hurt limb. The wound had been ill bandaged and probably not even washed, but from the looks of the dry, red stained bandaging, the bleeding had finally stopped. Legolas had awoken only moments ago, and his mind was not yet free of the befuddlements of the poison and recent unconsciousness obscuring his thinking. _I do not even know how long I have been insentient._ He was still in Eryn Galen: the canopy of trees above his drained and battered body was calling to him in recognition, evincing to him that he had come this way before in his many years. Even though he didn’t know where in Mirkwood he lay exactly, he at least knew he hadn’t been unconscious for too long since they were still in the forest.

 _I wish I knew where those bloody humans are._ He had woken disoriented, and for the briefest of moments, had expected to roll over to find the sun shining through his bedroom window. Upon trying to roll over, the pain of his leg injury and the ropes that bound his arms and legs had shattered that wonderful delusion. _I hope that they have fallen into a spiders’ nest._ Legolas’ entertaining thoughts of his captors' demise were interrupted by the sound of approaching humans.

“Well, Elf, good to see you awake. I was getting rather tired of carrying you.” The man who Legolas thought to be named Meika walked towards Legolas with two felled rabbits in one hand and a bundle of sticks in the other. “You had me worried. It’s too much trouble catching damn Elves; I don’t need to be in this blasted forest any longer than necessary. Certainly don’t need to wait around for another Elf to fall into our laps.”

Legolas didn’t bother to respond, not that he thought he could. _I could barely manage to stretch my legs earlier. How will I ever escape?_

“We’ll be out before the day’s over, Meika.” The other hunter, who Legolas remembered had been called Jalian, was building his own bundle of sticks into a cooking pit for the rabbits. “Yep, tomorrow we’ll be well on our way down the river. Boss’ll be happy to see we’ve done good. Took us a few days to get all those traps set, more time than I thought it would though. Still can’t believe his plan worked. An Elf caught in a trap. Who woulda thought? Think we should've gathered the other traps? We spent good money on 'em, to have 'em made with such an easy tripped catch on 'em.”

The two bickered about the other traps, although Legolas only hoped that none of his kinsmen would be as unfortunate as he to be caught in one. Both men, the Elf noticed, were still dressed in black but with their hoods back now. He could see the disfigured face of Jalian, replete with what seemed to be a glass eye. Jalian’s hair was cut close to his scalp, and Legolas could see that the man suffered scars even between the tufts of black hair that remained on his head. Meika, on the other hand, had a handsome, old face surrounded by thick brown hair that he pulled back in a short tail at the base of his neck.

Legolas watched the exchange between his captors mutely. The poison he had been given had not yet yielded its control over his body, and he found himself vacillating between awareness and a stupor where he could not pay attention to what the Elfnappers were saying.

“…the boss promised us, though. It’s not like we owe him anything. I’m just in it for the money. I don’t give a whip about Elves, so long as I don’t have to deal with them.”

“Ah, come on, Meika, you mean you aren’t looking forward to killing all those self-righteous Elves? It’s not like they’re humans, you know. No one but the trees will care that they are gone.”

“I’ve always heard that Elves had magic as strong as or stronger than the Dark Lord's magic. Maybe even after we get this cup that the boss is after they’ll be able to defeat any uprisin’s. They aren’t gonna just give up because a couple of mortals are suddenly immortal. I don't think Ament's thought this through very well, but maybe he's got plans we just don't know about yet.”

Seeing him with his eyes closed, the hunters probably thought that Legolas was sleeping or unconscious. _Or they don’t care whether I hear or not._ Had he been able, the Silvan would have laughed. _Mortals becoming immortal. These men have been grievously misled, apparently._ However, Legolas’ sense of foreboding returned, for the men's plans for their immortality and for the Elves once the mortals achieved life everlasting only confirmed to the Prince that he needed to escape, and quickly. _What good was this feeling before? Didn’t keep me from stepping into a human trap. This is the last time I check on the scout parties on foot._ He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his mind telling him that this may be the last time he had the chance to do or see many things.

“I know just what I’ll do with my share,” Meika said in an attempt to change the touchy subject. His captors shared their dreams; Meika wanted a house, a wife, and some kids, while Jalian wanted to invest his share into the slave trading market. While their goals of family and money were not uncommon, Legolas could not help thinking, _A farm and family are earned through hard work, as is money made in the market, though hopefully not a slave trade. Surely, these men could have found a better plan than abducting one of the Eldar._

They talked while the rabbits cooked, stopping only to fill themselves of the cooked game. The hunters’ sudden reticence went unnoticed by the Wood-Elf, as his body gave into the murkiness that veiled his mind, and he became oblivious again.

Legolas was growing tired of waking up in strange places, and like the last time he had woken, the Elf was not in full control of his body. _The sky. I can see the sky. We must have moved out of Eryn Galen._ With this comprehension came the realization that not only was he no longer in Mirkwood, but he was also swaying slightly, as if he were caught in the same breeze that blew the gray puffs of clouds through the azure sky overhead. Currently, the archer’s ears were ringing loudly but he thought he could hear the gentle rush of water. _The river. They said we were going down the river. I didn’t think they meant it this way._

“Whoa, Jalian, you’re gonna tip us with that idiocy! Who taught you to man a boat, boy?”

A burning sensation was beginning to settle in the back of the Elf’s throat. He felt as if the sun was not hiding behind the clouds but in his body. _I almost wish the boat would tip._ He could imagine little better than to relieve his blazing body with the cool water of the Anduin. _I’ve no doubt I would sink to the bottom. I cannot even raise my hand, much less swim should we overturn._ Suddenly, Meika’s face appeared in front of Legolas, blocking out the sun and casting a welcome shadow over the Elf’s heated form.

“Don’t die on us, Elf. Not yet anyway. Boss’ll find someone to get the fever down. Don’t worry. Before the end of today, we’ll be at the meetin’ place. Not far, not far at all.” The wound on his leg had become infected. _No wonder I feel as if though I were bathing in the fire in the depths of Mordor._

“Jalian, bring over my pack. And mind you don’t tip the boat!”

The scarred mercenary stepped gently around the small vessel, retrieved the pack, and then tossed it to Meika, who was not prepared for the hurtling object and almost didn’t seize it in time.

“Damn it, Jalian!” Laughter was the only response from the scarred Jalian, who walked back to his place at the helm, picked up his oar again, and laughed heartily once more. Digging into his pack, Meika pulled out a glass phial and removed the cork, all the while cursing his luck that he should be on a boat with a tree hugging Elf and a complete fool who couldn’t paddle his way out of a bowl of stew. “Here now. Just a wee bit more won’t hurt you, methinks. Just to tide you over until we get where we’re going. Don’t want you getting delirious and falling over the side.”

Meika stuck a stick in the poison, coating it with the bluish crystals within the glass vial. Legolas watched helplessly as the man shoved aside the crude bandage on his leg to reveal the inflamed flesh underneath. Without recourse, the Elf could only close his eyes to the searing agony as Meika rammed the coated stick into one of the almost closed wounds, not only reopening the flesh, but also poisoning Legolas with the despicable toxin that would put him back to sleep. He longed to reach down to the wound, to rub it at least. He could not even scream.

“Just relax, enjoy the rest of the ride, Elfling.”

This time, Legolas welcomed the darkness that settled over him as respite from the pain.


	3. Chapter 3

The light-haired Elf moved quickly through the forest, his eyes flitting about the forest's trees and shrubs, its shadows and dells to catch any sign, any clue. He paused occasionally, placing his hand upon a tree to confirm that he was still on the path that the Prince had taken. As a Silvan Elf, his gift of understanding the song of the forest was strong; however, the song was not explicit directions to the Prince’s whereabouts, only a shift in each tree’s natural melody that indicated that the Prince had been recognized by the tree, and thus the forest could only reassure Tirn, not guide him to the missing Legolas.

As a maple enlightened the searching warrior, he realized he was nearing the now abandoned campsite of the scouting party. Other warriors were fanned out through this area of Mirkwood, searching for clues, also. _I hope the others are having more luck than I am,_ Tirn prayed.

Their instructions had been clear:

_King Thranduil had been angry when first he had spoken to them, not worried. His tall, broad frame had seemed to tower above the contingent of Silvan soldiers, even when he had stepped down from the dais his throne set upon to address the warriors informally._

“ _Prince Legolas did not reach the scouting party he sought. This party has returned having neither heard nor seen signs of my son.” Thranduil paused, looking past the soldiers, past the fine draperies and furnishings, and beyond the walls, as if the King could see Legolas from where he stood in his palace throne room. “My heart is heavy with worry.”_

_To the small army of warriors who had volunteered gladly to search for the Prince, King Thranduil’s many millennia hung from his shoulders just then, as if his heart, heavy as it may have been, was an albatross about the King’s neck. When the scouting party had reported to their King and Legolas had not been among them, mere minutes had passed before the orders had been given to amass a search party, and now, less than an hour later, the party waited for the King to compose himself._

_Remembering his task, the sovereign of Eryn Galen stood erect once again, his anger returning with impassioned resolve. Turning, Thranduil addressed the Elf appointed as leader, “Search first the area around the scouting campsite. I want a report via messenger each hour of what you have found. Make no mistakes.” The director of the investigation nodded his assent. The King returned his attention to the soldiers, and told them in a voice harsh with emotion, “You will find him. Do not return without word of my son.”_

Tirn and the other Elves looking for the Prince would not have returned empty-handed willingly, even had their King not ordered it of them. Prince Legolas, though young in years in comparison to most of the Silvan warriors, had earned their respect with his battle skills and won their love with his mirth. All of Eryn Galen waited anxiously for news of the missing Prince. They had not been searching for more than a few hours but haste was important.

 _The trees still speak of Legolas, but they also speak of coming rain. If we do not find something soon, we may not be able to find anything at all._ Pushing that thought aside, Tirn returned his consideration to his surroundings, afraid to miss even the slightest trace of his quarry. The Prince had left yesterday morning and would have arrived at the campsite, traveling on foot, before dark. The scouting party had left this day’s morning on horse to return to the palace, having not received the instructions Legolas was to have brought them to stay as they were for another two weeks, and had reported to the King at mid-afternoon. _He cannot be more than a day missing, then._

The first drops from the oncoming downpour hit, causing Tirn to gaze beseechingly to the sky. _Please, Valar, let us find something first._ His pace quickened, and for half an hour more he hastened through the forest, calling out in birdlike whistles to inform his companions that he was still fine and had thus far found nothing, and listening to their similar replies. A modest amount of rain made its way past the limbs, leaves, and protective shelter of the trees, washing the forest clean. Stopping to listen to a tall oak’s lifesong, Tirn noted that the ground had yet to be soaked by the downpour, though it soon would.

_Then why is there a puddle of mud by that underbrush?_

The fair warrior darted to the puddle, and catching the silvery glint of the substance staining the forest floor in the light of the setting sun, let loose a shrill whistle.

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He had woken to the feel of rain pelting his face. He tried to move his arms to find them still paralyzed. The swaying of the boat had become erratic. Besides the occasional curses of the men, the archer had noticed the sounds of the wind ripping through the nearby trees and knew that a fierce storm was approaching. The worst of it had not yet reached them.

“We need to go to shore, Jalian,” Meika shouted above the gale.

“No. We are two days late already in having caught the Elf; we need to get to the meeting point before dark. The sun is almost set and we’ve leagues to go,” the disfigured and disgruntled hunter yelled in return. The wind did not blow the boat about – the gusts blew the men about, whose fight to stay upright shook the tiny craft with their every move.

“Sit down, Jalian. You are only making it worse!”

Jalian continued his progress towards Meika, who sat at the front of the boat trying to steer them to the shore. A particularly strong wind hit Jalian hard, causing him to flail about to maintain his balance, and making the boat rock precariously.

“Damn it, Jalian, catch the...” was the last that Legolas heard. His world became icy blue.

 _I suppose what the Edain say is true. One had better watch what he wishes for: now I’ll have the swim I wanted earlier,_ Legolas thought somewhat deliriously, as his inert body sank slowly to the undercurrents of the Anduin. He closed his eyes.

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Very little conversation had taken place after Aragorn was accepted as a part of the brothers’ entourage. They had collected their horses and the Ranger had followed the mercenaries wordlessly to the forest. He was not yet sure that they had accepted him fully and would have to remain aware of their every move, especially Ramlin, who turned in his saddle to glare in Aragorn’s direction. Ament, on the other hand, rode slightly ahead, stopping occasionally to check a piece of lambskin that the Ranger assumed was a map or set of directions. He was unsure where exactly the brothers were leading him, knowing only that they were heading away from the Misty Mountains and towards the Anduin. Fulton was north of the Dwarven mines of Moria but east of the mountains – if they continued due east, they would be close to the borders of the Elven realm of Eryn Galen.

The three had been riding all morning and all day. _We can’t go much further without fording the river. Surely, we will meet up with the others before then._ As if aware of Aragorn’s thoughts, Ament reined his horse in, and turning to Ramlin and Aragorn, declared, “I can hear the river. We are close.”

At that moment, an arrow sped past Ramlin’s head, embedding itself in the tree behind the surprised mercenary. Aragorn dismounted reflexively, pulled his bow from his shoulder, and reached for an arrow from his quiver but paused at hearing Ramlin’s guttural laughter.

“That was quick, Strider,” Ament said appreciatively, “but there is no danger. Come out, Doran, and meet the new member of our group.”

Ament and Ramlin dismounted while Strider replaced his unused weapons slowly, his survival instinct aroused and his distrust of the mercenaries heightened by the violent display of archery. An extraordinarily tall, thin man appeared from behind a rock outcropping, bow in hand, with a beaming countenance.

“Strider, this is Doran, our master archer, and long friend to us. Doran, meet Strider, a fellow Elf-hater who has asked to join us in ridding Middle Earth of the foul creatures.” Ament’s introduction caused Doran to examine Aragorn closely. The Ranger was taken aback by the hatred he could see in the archer’s eyes, a loathing apparent upon Ament’s mention of the Elves. Doran’s brownish-blond short hair was pushed behind his ears, his short blond beard and searing green eyes giving him the appearance of the Rohirrim, the Rohan horse lords.

“Good, we can always use another hand. Ament is right. You are fast, and any enemy of the Elves is a friend of mine.” Doran’s examination continued, and the Ranger could feel the man's gaze as it assessed his stature and thereby his capabilities as a fighter. The archer was sizing him up, and Estel tried not to show his unease.

Instead, Aragorn felt compelled to reaffirm his supposed hatred for the Elves to win over this new addition to his sham. “The Elves have been spoilt by our acquiescence to their interference in human affairs. It is long past time they paid the price for the wrongs they have done to man.”

He hoped his lie was convincing. _Apparently, I am a better liar than my brothers have let on,_ the Ranger thought, as Doran clasped Estel's forearm suddenly in a welcoming greeting. Aragorn returned the gesture, observing Ament’s pleasure and Ramlin’s ire at Strider's easy admittance into the group by Doran.

Ament’s pleased look returned to his usual scowl as he queried, “Doran, have the others arrived yet with the _cargo_?” The mercenary’s emphasis as he spoke was not lost on his audience. Ramlin and Doran both grinned with what Aragorn thought looked like ravenous desire, eying each other and licking their lips as they shared a moment of anticipation.

“No, they’ve not returned," the archer said. "For most of the morning I’ve been waiting for them by the river to ensure that they would find us, but a storm has been brewing just north of here, and I suspect that has thrown them off course. They’ve likely stopped on the shore to wait it out.”

The scowl deepened on Ament's pale face. “If they are not here soon I will open their bellies upon their arrival. I’ve no wish to wait when we are this close. They should have been here yesterday at the latest.”

Ramlin turned his dull eyes to the darkening sky. “The storm will reach us, too, it seems, ere nightfall. Did you find us shelter for the night, Doran?”

“Indeed. A cave lies not far from the shore. We can spend what is left of the day and the night there, setting out in the morning,” he suggested, looking deferentially to Ament for support.

Ament nodded and then ordered his brother, “Ramlin, you and Doran stay at the shore. Strider and I will make camp at this cave. Where is it?”

As Doran explained in simple directions how to get to the cave, Aragorn’s attention wavered back to the wolfish glee that Ramlin and Doran had displayed when the leader had mentioned their cargo. _I know they do not yet have the goblet. Surely, they are not so anxious for their friends to come with supplies._

“Strider, let us gather wood for our fire as we walk.” Ament took off, expecting Aragorn to follow behind him. Ramlin and Doran were nearly gamboling towards the river, jesting and playfully batting at each other like overgrown children. The Ranger ambled after Ament reluctantly, wondering what mess he had stepped into this time.

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 _How can I be so hot while shivering from the cold?_ Legolas again woke up not knowing where he was. The Prince was unsure what had happened after he had been tossed from the boat like a child’s rag doll. He had realized his impending death was upon him when his body had hit the bottom of the river, only to be swept along its eddies and entangling in the plants sprouting from the bottom, their waxy leaves and branches brushing against his face as his chest had burned with the last of his oxygen and he had been under the water for too long, longer than even an Elf could hold his breath. It was then that he had given in to the urge to breathe, drawing into his lungs the cold river water. He could remember nothing after that.

Night had long settled in, as had the storm. Flashes of lightning illuminated his surroundings briefly. He could barely make out the two men trying to drag the boat onto the shore of the river, only to lose it in the rapids, where it overturned and floated away while the men watched.

The Elf assumed that one of the hunters had rescued him. _I’m not sure whether to thank them or wish they had left me in the river. Time will tell,_ he joked to himself gloomily. Whatever the men had in store for him, he would not give in so easily to death if he could help it. His life was not his own. _I am Prince of Eryn Galen. I will live if only to spite these men and see them dead._

His thoughts turned to his father. A search party would have been assembled as soon as his absence was noticed. Even if they had been careful in their plotting to lay the trap, the hunters had not been careful in their travel to the river, Legolas was sure, and they had not bothered to erase the evidence of his temporary captivity in the trap, so the Elves would have little difficulty in following. _If the rain has not destroyed our path. What of the river? They will not know where we have stopped._ Legolas’ panic threatened to return.

“That’s enough from you, Meika. I told ya, it were an accident. The Elf lives, so no harm is done. We need to worry about gettin’ down the river on foot, not sit here to argue about who did what.” The two men walked to Legolas, adjusting their possessions and readying for travel.

Meika was clearly not about to let Jalian gloss over his culpability in their current delay. He frowned. “Fine, but when the boss asks why we are late, you get to explain it to him.”

Jalian was frowning, too, now. “Just come on.”

Legolas traced the man’s movements as he bent down to pick up the Wood-Elf, unable to avoid the scarred mercenary's hold of him. Whether this immobility was due to the poison or his near death experience, the cold or perhaps his fever, the archer did not know. His head lolled to the side when Jalian hefted the Elf over his shoulder. With each step, Legolas’ bound legs hit the front of the man’s torso, continually jarring his infected wounds. He shut his eyes and did not try to struggle.

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Ament was growing tired of the postponement. He stirred the fire anxiously with a stick, glancing every few moments to the mouth of the cave where sheets of torrential rain barred his view of everything within three or four feet of the opening. He stopped his agitated movements. Strider sat across from the fire, legs crossed and eyes closed. The man was tormentingly quiet.

Ament felt compelled to trust the Adan, though he didn’t understand why. _It is something about his demeanor._ _I likely should have let Ramlin kill him._ The mercenary pondered the stranger. _But he was quick to arms earlier. He may serve us well if we encounter any problems on our journey._ Ament couldn’t imagine why the man would wish to join them other than for the reasons Strider had claimed. _If nothing else, I do not know how much he overheard. If he has learned the location of the goblet, it would be better to keep him near. His utility only makes it that much more bearable._

After they had gathered firewood, Ament had tried to engage Strider in conversation, to no avail. Though the stranger had been polite, he had seemed reluctant to talk. _I’ll find out what I want to from this man, or I’ll give him to Ramlin to beat out of him._

Ament sniggered in amusement. His younger brother was a brainless twit, in his opinion. _If he weren’t so good at being mean, I would have rid myself of him long ago. Brawn is easy to replace._ He cast another look in Strider’s direction, thinking of how the man could easily be trained into a fine replacement for Ramlin. The stranger had bested Ramlin easily, and his quickness to arms and obeisance thus far made him seem a suitable thug. _I bet he doesn’t like to inflict pain as much as Ramlin, though. That talent only my brother seems to foster._ Picking up his stick again, the mercenary gave the fire another poke.

This was the brothers' big chance. Previous attempts to obtain wealth and better their circumstances had been unsuccessful. _Ramlin is the problem. If he ruins this, I will tear him limb from limb._ Only a month ago, Ramlin had ruined Ament's plans and had nearly caused the elder brother to make good on his constant threats to divest himself of his younger sibling. _All my well-laid plans, wrecked by his thirst for blood and pain._

His brother’s perverse desires had almost gotten them killed. Ament had planned for Ramlin to distract a farm family by asking them for help with directions to town while Ament made off with several of their horses from the fields. The simple plan had been successful; that is, until Ramlin’s base needs had interfered. Ament had acquired the horses and traveled quickly to their agreed convening spot. Ramlin, however, had swiped the farm family’s youngest daughter, injuring the girl's father and brother, who had fought to keep her safe, and nearly slaying the mother, in his effort to take the young girl. He had done her no harm only because he had not had the chance before Ament had stopped him. It had taken every threat Ament could conjure to convince Ramlin to leave her unspoilt, keening and shivering in the forest. Ament didn’t care for the girl, but had not wanted to deal with the wrath of the entire village. Horse thieves were chased: murderers and rapists were hunted.

The rain continued outside their shelter. _I wonder if Strider sleeps. Let us see how quick he is to arms now._ Ament smiled. If anyone else had been around to see him, he would have been amazed at the simple transformation of the man’s appearance from mercenary shrewdness to playful jollity. He took his stick in hand and tossed it lightly at the silent form in front of him. Ament watched, astonished at the recovery the man made, as he moved from a still body to alertness, hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes promptly assessing the situation. “I had wondered if you were asleep, friend.” Ament could not help but laugh at Strider’s confusion.

Strider relaxed back into the curving wall of the dank cave. _His hand lies still on the hilt of his sword,_ Ament commented to himself. Aloud he said, “I was curious as to whether you were as quick to rise as you are to dismount.” Again, the mercenary laughed mirthfully at Strider's confusion.

The stranger seemed satisfied with this answer when he had determined no danger was at hand, and smiled genuinely in return. “I have traveled often by myself and I am accustomed to awakening in the wilds at the least provocation.” Before Ament could respond, a commotion drew their attention to the area outside the cave. Unable to see what was happening, the two scrambled from the ground and bolted outside when they heard the call for help from Doran.

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Elrohir was growing weary of his twin’s constant complaints. Elladan had been questioning Elrohir’s logic since first they had left Imladris, as it had been Elrohir’s idea to meet Aragorn on his way over the Misty Mountains. “Ada will kill us when he sees we have gone, Elrohir. You _do_ know this.”

It wasn’t a question. Elrohir responded anyway. “Ada will only be upset that he, too, couldn’t escape the smell that still lingers from Estel’s last prank, Elladan. It was you who angered Ada last, anyway.”

Elladan chuckled in remembrance of his last joke. Unfortunately, he had picked the wrong time and the wrong Elf on which to perform this joke. _Who would have known that Glorfindel would become so upset that his favorite ceremonial robes had been dyed pink?_ Lord Elrond had been grieved that his sons had upset his commander so.

“We can thoroughly thrash Estel now, Elladan, without Ada around to stop us.”

“But we will never find him, brother. We do not even know that he came this way.”

“We do not need to know this. We will find him, I promise. And even if we don’t, we escape father’s rage. When all is settled down we can return, with or without Aragorn.”

Elladan nearly shuddered at Elrohir’s phrasing, the odd statement not sitting well with the elder Noldo. They both loved their adopted brother dearly; any ill to him would be an ill to them and would not go unrequited. “We are almost to the pass, Elrohir. Do we traverse or do we wait?”

“We keep on, brother. We will find Aragorn, of this I am sure.”

 _I hope so,_ Elladan told himself, shifting uncomfortably on his horse, _and in one piece, please._


	4. Chapter 4

Aragorn’s initial reaction to the wrapped bundle that Doran carried was fortunately missed by the band of men jogging rapidly towards the opening of the cave where he and Ament waited. When the long blonde hair had fallen free of the cloak that was wrapped around the body, Aragorn’s jaw dropped in utter incredulity. As Doran pushed past him, huffing from his run to the cave, Estel caught a glimpse of a drenched form hidden in the folds of sodden fabric. _Whoever that is, his time on Middle Earth may soon be ending._

Still agape with shock, the Ranger’s mouth closed with a snap when Ament turned in his direction to address Ramlin and the two men that had followed Doran to the cave. “I see you obtained the _cargo._ How hard was he to find?” Ament was obviously pleased that his fellow mercenaries had returned and seemed to forget that Doran had called for help only moments earlier. He eyed the two newcomers with misgiving when neither offered to answer his question. “What is it?”

“The cargo. He... fell into the river. I think he’s got a fever, too,” the older of the two responded hesitantly, looking suspiciously at Aragorn and shifting from foot to foot, as he talked. “We got here as fast as the storm would allow, boss.”

Ament stepped forward, and placing his face dangerously close to the older man, he hissed, “You had better not have lost this one, Meika. We can’t afford the time to catch another Wood-Elf, you idiot.”

 _Wood-Elf? Sweet Eru!_ The Ranger’s jaw nearly dropped again. _They have caught a Wood-Elf?_

The man named Meika started to explain but his disfigured companion interrupted, tilting his head in the Ranger's direction to indicate of whom he spoke, “Who’s this, boss?” He, too, looked distrustfully at Aragorn, and did not wish to divulge any information in front of the Ranger.

Appreciating the suspicion, Ament pulled back from Meika, causing the elder man to sigh audibly in relief that his leader's attention was momentarily elsewhere. Retaining his ire and still intent on getting his answers, Ament scowled harder but replied, “He’s trustworthy enough, Jalian, or as much as any of you. His name is Strider. But never you mind any of that. We’ve got more important things to worry about, especially you two. If this Elf dies, so do you.”

Meika and Jalian cowered slightly behind Ramlin, who did not seem to notice but headed inside the cave and then turned his head, speaking to the group of men, “Let’s see what damage is done, brother, before we start slitting throats. I for one want out of this rain.” With Ramlin in lead, Meika and Jalian followed closely behind him in an attempt to avoid Ament’s rage. Aragorn and Ament followed them into the cave, the cold water running from their clothes and hair in rivulets even after they were sheltered from the downpour.

 _What now? I cannot let the Elf die_ , the Ranger contemplated worriedly, slowing his pace behind the group of men so that they would not notice his confused indecision. If he tried to aid the Elf, he might blow his chance to follow the men on their quest or perhaps even forfeit both their lives. _Why do they want an Elf?_ Aragorn slid past the whispering Meika and Jalian and moved towards the far interior of the small cave to where Ament and Ramlin hovered over the Wood-Elf. Doran, who was removing soiled bandages from the creature’s leg, was kneeling beside the fair creature.

 _He does not look like he will survive the night._ With the scrutiny of a trained healer, the Ranger assessed the Elf’s injuries. _His leg wounds are infected._ Red and raw looking, several deep gouges circled the Elf's leg, the muscle and flesh torn. _What created wounds such as these?_ Although unconscious, the Wood-Elf was shivering, the cold rainwater and sopping clothing he wore providing him with little protection from the chilly confines of the cave. _He is too cold, even for an Elf, and especially with this infection. If he is not warmed and the fever reduced, he will surely pass into the Halls of Mandos before the sun rises._

Leaning over the tall archer's kneeling form, Ament inquired anxiously from Doran, “Can you help him?”

Doran turned his attention from his useless prodding of the Elf’s wounds to answer his leader with a grimace. “I know nothing of healing, Ament.”

Impatient to get his hands on the Elf but afraid to sound too eager, Aragorn stepped closer to the three mercenaries, physically aching to help the wounded Elda. He volunteered with what he hoped sounded like a causal offer, “I know something of healing. Perhaps I can tend him.”

Ramlin and Doran’s looks of surprise created within Aragorn the intense desire to fidget. _If I do not play this correctly, both the Elf and I may not live the night._ Ament, however, looked thrilled to have his cargo’s life in Strider's hands, for there was no one else who had stepped forward to aid the Wood-Elf.

“There is much we do not know of you, Strider. Keep the Elf alive and I will reward you generously.” Ament clasped Aragorn’s bicep in gratitude and then turned to the mouth of the cave, ordering loudly, “Meika, come here. You will get Strider whatever he requires to treat the Elf.”

Meika complied, head lowered in acceptance. Ramlin and Doran moved back from the Elf to give the Ranger room to kneel next to the woodland creature. The Elf's trembling increased as a breeze of bitter air swept into the dank and musty cave. Turning to the approaching Meika, Aragorn asked softly, “Fetch my bag.”

Again, Meika complied hurriedly, picked through the satchels of the mercenaries' belongings before finding Estel's, and then handed the bag to Aragorn, who was removing the drenched cloak from the Elf’s body. _Valar, his skin is grayer than Gandalf’s beard._ Sliding his hands under the Silvan's tunic, Aragorn ran his hands over the Elf’s ribs and arms, checking for broken bones or other hidden wounds. The crowd of people towering over him blocked the firelight, and he ordered them distractedly, “Move back, I cannot see to him in the dark." Ramlin grunted in annoyed surprise, though this soon gave way to irritation at being ordered, and he began to protest.

“Get back, damn it.” Ament’s concurring order swayed Ramlin and Doran, however, and the two marched angrily to the fire where Jalian was boiling water ineptly for their dinner of bread and stewed meat. The fiery-haired leader nodded to Aragorn, “Whatever it takes, Strider, I’ve no wish for delay,” before joining his brother and companions.

Meika crouched next to Aragorn, careful to avoid distracting the healer from his work. Pulling a small dagger from its sheath along his inner calf, the Ranger used it to cut the Elf’s binds at his hands and the torn cloth away from the Elf’s seeping leg wounds. Knowing that the Wood-Elf's arms were likely numb from being tied behind his back, the Ranger rubbed them briefly before laying them over the Silvan's stomach, despite the worried look from Meika at allowing the Elf his freedom. He muttered by way of explanation, "He won't be moving anytime soon."

The elder mercenary nodded, and Aragorn continued his examination. He could find no other damage than the irregular wounds on the Elf's legs, save for some bruises and the chafing of the Wood-Elf's wrists. Knowing that Meika had been present for at least part of the Elf’s captivity, he decided to question him as to why the Elda was unconscious. “How did the ... cargo obtain these wounds?” Aragorn was unsure how to speak of the Wood-Elf. He didn’t want to be suspected for sympathizing with the Elda’s plight.

“We caught him in a trap. Didn’t think it would work but he stepped right on it.” Meika’s earlier reluctance towards the Ranger had switched to eagerness to help. Whether this was because his life depended on the Elf’s or because Ament had assured the newcomers of Aragorn's trustworthiness, the Ranger did not know. Nor, for that matter, did he care, so long as the mercenary aided him in keeping the Elf among the living.

“A trap? You mean an animal trap?” The Ranger’s own doubt was apparent in his tone. _The mechanism could never have been activated by an Elf's step, unless he jumped on it._

“Yes sir, he stepped right on it. But not just any trap. Boss had some made special, so it wouldn't take much to set them off. Boss told us to lure an Elf toward them but before we even could, he done caught himself running to wherever he was going.”

 _Running. That would have done it. I wonder why he was running, and who this Elf is. I hope that his people have noticed his absence._ With the tip of his finger, the Ranger pressed the gouges on the Elda's leg, testing them to see if the wounds were hot with fever. “His wounds are not healing properly. The Elves heal much quicker than the Secondborn, yet these lacerations are still open.” Taking a bladder of water in hand, Aragorn rinsed out the cuts. _No doubt, his bout in the rain and river has cleaned these enough already._

“Might be that stuff that the boss said to put on the trap, then, you think? I had to give him a bit more to keep him quiet,” Meika said as he wrung his hands together, vexed at what implications his decision to give the Elf more of the poison may have.

Aragorn looked up sharply from wiping the Elf’s wounds with a clean piece of linen. “What did you give him?”

The older man said nothing but walked to the fire, avoiding the curious eyes of the four men sharing their meal of boiled meat. When he returned, he handed Aragorn a small phial of bluish crystals as he knelt beside the Ranger again. “This is what the boss said to give him. He didn’t say how much, though.”

The Ranger inspected the substance, knowing, but hoping, it was not what he feared it to be. _It is not just fever, then. He is reacting to this noxious potion._ “It is luingalas.” Noticing the puzzlement of the mercenary, Aragorn translated, “Blueweed, as it is also known before it is extracted and dried. Normally it would only put an Elf to sleep. You must have given him more than he needed,” the Ranger said, unable to keep the censure from his tone.

Meika wrung his hands harder in his increased worriment, eying the Elf. “Will he live?”

“I do not know yet. We will see.”

 _Although I doubt his life means as much to you as your own,_ Aragorn thought forlornly, though he had to wonder at the older man's worry, for it seemed that Meika truly wanted the Elf to survive. _Likely, he wishes the Silvan to live only for whatever use they have for him,_ the Ranger decided. He continued his ministrations, tending first to the obvious wounds while thinking hard as to how to counteract the poison. Searching through his bag, he found a packet of athelas, an herb he had learned to travel with if at all possible. He wasn’t sure that this herb would have any effect on the poison. _It wouldn’t hurt, however._ He was not familiar with luingalas _,_ as it was not often used. _I hope my ignorance is not the death of this immortal life._ He did not know the Elf, but gauging from his clothing and light coloring, he guessed the woodland creature was from Mirkwood and more than likely one of King Thranduil's own warriors.

Aragorn blended several medicinal herbs together in a small mortar he kept with him, hoping that together the herbs known to reduce fever and poison would sustain the Elf, at least until he could find a way out of this for the both of them.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _The bastard had better keep the Elf alive,_ Ramlin thought drearily, noting each time Strider touched the Elf, and wishing it was he doing the touching, instead. He was not looking forward to his brother’s fury should the Elf die. _Besides, perhaps I will get my chance to have some fun with the Elf before Ament fulfills his plans for him. Perhaps, even, Ament will abandon this dim-witted scheme and we can sell the Elf._

He was paying only half his attention to the explanation Jalian was giving for the cargo’s current condition. The mercenary couldn’t stop thinking about the captive. The beauty of the Elf had not gone unnoticed by Ramlin, and his unquenched need for destruction was coming to a head.

“Ramlin!”

The sudden shift in conversation was lost on the mammoth mercenary, and he was drawn abruptly from his thoughts. “What?” He didn’t know who had addressed him, and so questioned the group of men as a whole.

Ament rolled his eyes. “Doran asked you, brother, to explain this plot you two had concocted earlier.” The leader appeared annoyed. In fact, the younger sibling knew his brother was glad to have their new addition minding the Elf, but Ramlin also knew that Ament was concerned with his brother’s excessive interest in their captive.

“Ah, yes,” Ramlin thought quickly, “I told Doran on our way here that we could find our riches in selling the Elf, should he live. He would garner us great wealth for his beauty.” His attention returned to the back of the cave where Meika was handing Strider more linen to bind the Wood-Elf’s injuries.

“You mean as a slave? I think not, brother, this Elf is worth much to us as he is.”

Ramlin clenched his fists in aggravation; Ament's easy dismissal of his younger brother's ideas came as no surprise to Ramlin, but was no less harder to accept each time Ament did it. “ _Brother_ , Jalian could easily help us find a buyer for it without even taking him to a slave trader. We could break him and then sell him. Tell me this is not easier than this plan you have.”

Ament colored bright red in his own frustration, for Ramlin was questioning his brother's decision in front of the men the elder brother purported to lead. “Nay, you are mistaken. Our purposes are much higher than enslaving one Elf. We have the opportunity to make them all our servants, should we succeed.”

“But Ament,” Ramlin argued, “this Elf...” He couldn’t finish this statement, not with Doran and Jalian watching covertly the argument between the siblings.

Ament understood what Ramlin meant, and did not care to embarrass his brother with his desires. “This Elf is handsome, yes, Ramlin.” He paused, leaning over the fire and staring deep into his sibling’s eyes with both determination and loathing to declare, “You will not have him. He is mine. You will not ruin this plan for me, brother.” The fire’s reflection in Ament’s eyes matched his devilish hair, altogether making him look entirely wicked.

“Then at least let me have my pleasure with him.” Their audience forgotten, the two brothers battled wills with their gazes.

“He lies on his deathbed and you wish to have your way with him.”

Ramlin huffed in irritation, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, defeated in this argument, though not forever. “I only wish to have some fun, brother. Come now, it bothers you not when it suits you.”

Ament could not deny this, and so changed the subject entirely, ignoring Ramlin to shove another piece of venison into his mouth, and saying between chews, “Strider will save him. I am sure of this. It is well that I brought him along.”

 _I will persuade him, or I will take the Elf anyway. I am tired of his orders,_ Ramlin deliberated. _He will see that I am right in the end._ Turning his stare back to the captive he desired and ignoring the conversation that the men around the fire were holding about the upcoming journey, Ramlin pictured the beauty in compromising positions, imagining the sounds of the Elf screaming in torment.

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Legolas tried to rouse himself from the blackness surrounding his awareness. He could hear voices in the background speaking faintly. _They are talking about me._ He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he knew intuitively that he was the topic of their conversation, for what else would his captors have to speak about in such tones. As the Wood-Elf regained his wits, he pondered on where he was and how he had gotten here. The last thing he remembered was a particularly jarring movement of his legs against the ground when the men who had captured him had thrown him there. After hearing new voices, Legolas had blacked out entirely, missing how he had arrived where he was at the moment.

Now, as he tried to open his eyes against the heaviness that kept them shut, he overheard one of the new voices he had heard earlier saying, “...least let me have my pleasure with him.” Another voice responded, “He lies on his deathbed and you wish to have your way with him.”

The Wood-Elf, once sure that the voices spoke of him, now hoped that the voices spoke naught of what he assumed. He had heard many horror stories of what happened to Elves who had the ill-fated luck to be caught by the race of men and now, as he lay feverish and poisoned within their grasp, he hoped he would not soon learn the honesty of these tales. _I must find a way to escape._ His arms were untied and he could feel their pressure as they lay across his stomach and the lacerating pain as the circulation returned to them, but whether by poison or disuse of them, he could not move his limbs.

He tried harder to open his eyes and only with an immense endeavor did he succeed. His efforts were compensated by the view of a dark haired human with gray eyes peering down over him. The human smiled with what Legolas thought was relief and the man's furrowed brow cleared at seeing the Wood-Elf awake.

“Meika,” the gray-eyed human ordered softly, turning to the man next to him, an older human that the Elf recognized with repulsion, “go get another water flask.”

To Legolas the man asked in the grey-tongue, “Do you feel well?”

The Prince was momentarily flabbergasted by the man’s fluent Sindarin but he could not yet find his voice to answer the human's question, or to voice his surprise that one of his captor's knew Elvish. Meika returned with the flask, handing it to the stranger silently, who looked at Meika with a trepidation that Legolas could not guess the meaning behind, before telling the elder man bluntly, “Leave us. He will be better off without your presence.” The older man left without arguing, nodding and then moving to sit with his fellows by the fire.

 _There are more of them,_ the Elf thought, seeing their movement in his peripheral vision, though he could not turn his head to count the humans who held him captive.

“Do you need a drink of water?" the man asked, again using Elvish and capturing Legolas' attention away from the men around the campfire.

Not wanting to admit his need but knowing that his pride could cost him the chance to escape should he not be healthy enough to try, Legolas nodded faintly with much effort. The Elf watched as the man poured the water into a bowl of mixed herbs – what the herbs were he could not tell. The stranger placed his hand behind Legolas’ head and propped the Prince up so that he would not choke on the liquid. “Drink this.”

"What is it?” The sound of his own voice made him flinch, for it was raspy and broken.

Casting a glance behind him at the group of mercenaries gathered about the fire pit in the center of the cave, the stranger rejoined softly, “Don't worry, my friend. It will help your fever and alleviate the effects of the luingalas.”

Worried though he was, Legolas much longed to quench the thirst that plagued him, and so decided to trust the human, at least this much, so that he could recuperate. The men wanted him alive, therefore, he reasoned, they would not have brought him here just to kill him with poison. _Although they’ve almost done this anyway._ The stranger laid the Elf’s head back down on the ground tenderly when Legolas' thirst had been slaked. Switching to the common-tongue, the Elf asked of the stranger, “Are these your intentions, too?”

Mystified by the enigmatic question, the stranger only replied as he rifled through his bag of supplies, “My name is Strider. What is yours?”

Legolas considered whether to respond or not. His effort to keep his eyes open and his mind aware using more of his strength than he would have thought, the Elf's anger fueled his bitter counter, “Strider, then. You call me friend, and yet you keep me alive for the sake of the pleasure of your companions.”

Again, the stranger looked puzzled, his head rose from his perusal of herbs, and he replied, “I know not of what you speak. I only know that your safety is endangered. You must trust me,” the human whispered, sparing another glance at the men gathered around the fire.

“Why do you not help me escape, then?” Legolas asked him, certain that this human would no more be of aid to him than the elder human the Prince had asked to help him in the forest, but the Wood-Elf hoped to glean any information he could from the man, and it did not hurt to try.

“Are you joking? You can barely speak and I cannot handle four men by myself while trying to protect you.”

The Elf knew what the man said was true but his defensive side rose to the occasion, and the only reply Strider received was a look of cold fury. _Must he remind me I am weak? I am here because of him._ He knew this wasn’t true, however. _You are here because of yourself._ He hated this voice in his head, the voice of reason that so often sounded like his father or his tutors speaking to him. _Your lack of care placed you here._

"I will try to help you, Master Elf, but there is something I must do first." Having replaced all of his sundry healing items back in his satchel, the human cinched it closed and then sighed, sitting back on his haunches. “Besides, the situation is complicated,” Strider added conciliatorily, quietly, so that none could hear him but the Prince.

Legolas repeated in like tone, “Complicated.”

The approach of a massive, dark skinned human ended the conversation at once, giving the healer no chance to explain. Legolas did not trust Strider: his words were lies, Legolas was sure of it. _He will not help me. He consorts with the men who have taken me. When the opportunity arises, he will die with the rest if that’s what it takes for me to be free, to get back to Eryn Galen._

"Ramlin," the healer said, nodding his head in obeisance though he saved his worried gaze for Legolas.

“Ah, I see the pretty Elf is awake.” The huge oaf that the healer called Ramlin knelt down next to Strider, a coarse rope in hand. “We can’t have him getting away, Strider, can we? Even if he can't move now, he'll be able to once Ament's poison wears off.” He turned to Strider, demanding of the healer, “Go eat. I’ll take care of him for a while.”

Reluctantly, it seemed to Legolas, his healer walked to the fire pit. Legolas could hear one of the men gathered there ask if their cargo would live.Uncoilingthe rope and leaning down to the Elf, Ramlin murmured, “You are very beautiful, aren’t you? I’ve never tasted an Elf before, nor had the pleasure of one.”

The Prince of Mirkwood refused to react to the man’s taunts, though he recognized the human's voice as the one who had asked to bed the Elf and this alone caused Legolas' stomach to twist in disgust. Ramlin didn’t seem to care that his prisoner was silent. He rebound the Wood-Elf's hands behind his back by rolling the unresisting Elf on his side, and when the knot had been tied tightly, the mercenary ran his fingers over the stretched muscles of his captive’s ribs, briefly flattening his palm against the archer’s lower back where the slight swell of his rear began. Legolas tried not to shudder with the waves of revulsion that assaulted him at the man’s promising, unwanted touch. Suddenly, Ramlin released his hold, allowing the Elf’s body to fall painfully back onto the ground.

 _This one I will kill for fun. Would that I could but move my arm and he would soon find his own dagger in his throat._ The vehement fury in Legolas’ eyes caused Ramlin to look away, for the incisive stare of an Elda, especially one angered, could make even the bravest men drop their gaze.

Instead, the beefy mercenary leered at the remainder of the Elf’s body. “Very nice. We will have to do more exploring... when you are up to it. I prefer my victims fighting under me, rather than just lying there.” The mercenary chuckled wolfishly, gave the Elf one last look, and then tied Legolas’ feet swiftly before he moved off towards the fire.

Legolas closed his eyes, overjoyed that the human had not continued touching him, for he could still feel the man’s hands fondling his back and ribs. _They will all die by my hand._


	5. Chapter 5

From their horses atop of the Misty Mountains, twins Elrohir and Elladan could see the storm clouds rolling over the southern skies of Middle Earth.

“We travel into this rain, brother.” Elladan had maintained his resistance to roving the mountains waiting for their human brother to arrive. They had just broken camp and were tidying up their campsite – or what passed for one. Neither twin believed in the fusses that some Elves and most humans required while in the wilds, and they had only to gather their blankets and tie their bags back on their horses before continuing their journey.

From the moment he had opened his eyes, Elladan had begun his tireless opposition to Elrohir's insistence on travel, had not stopped while they packed, and now that they were leaving, only seemed to protest more. It seemed clear to them both that they would never find the Ranger without divine intervention, but Elrohir remained steadfast in trying. “And we don’t expect Estel for at least two weeks," Elladan continued as if his brother had spoken against his last argument. "You know he will take his time in returning. If he even comes at all. He may have found some distraction along the way.”

“That is only because he fears our retribution. I tell you, Elladan, we will find him, or else he will find us.” Elrohir remained obdurate that they would run into Estel, an adamantine resolve that Elladan, despite his constant questioning of it, could never have broken.

“Elrohir, what if he took the southern pass? Or what if he ...”

Elrohir interrupted, climbing onto his mount with a huff of frustration, “Or what if he shrunk, grew a beard, and digs in the mines of Moria? Or perhaps he ...”

“Enough, Elrohir. Fine. Let us at least track some Orc. I cannot wait around for Estel with only your company," the elder twin teased, swinging himself into sitting on his own horse as well.

Although worried for his human brother, the younger twin smiled at Elladan's snide insult, asking, “You mean you would prefer the company of Orcs to my company?”

“Right now, brother, I would prefer the company of the Dark One to your incessant banter.”

Pulling his horse around to face his brother's, Elrohir exclaimed, “Elladan! You are the one who will not quiet!”

Elladan only laughed but sobered to ask again the question Elrohir could not answer. “What makes you so sure that we will run into Estel?”

“I don’t know. He will need us.” With this cryptic remark, Elrohir spurred his horse on, as sure as he was of the ground beneath him that Elladan would follow, while keeping his eyes open for signs of Orc.

_Please let us run into a cave Troll or something._

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Aragorn had not slept the night, preferring instead to keep watch over the Elf. He lay on his side, feigning sleep next to the Elda, while watching the creature’s chest rise and fall with the deep, steady breaths of Elven healing slumber. _In the morning’s light, he appears even fairer._ The Ranger shook his head imperceptibly against where it lay on his folded arm. _He is still far too pale, and I doubt the luingalas has yet left his system. He will be unable to aid me in our escape._

The human sighed lightly, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but unable to keep his melancholy silent. The night had been spent engineering one plan after another, yet somehow all led him to the same conclusion: he was stuck where he was and therefore so was the injured Wood-Elf. Aragorn was certain that the captive would still be immobile when he woke, though his body would recuperate soon enough. _I would need to aid him escape if we left right now... but then I would be unable to follow Ament to the goblet._ The paradox left him in dire circumstances. He reasoned that should he escape with the Elf, either Ament would follow him to exact vengeance or recapture the Elda, else he would carry on to get the goblet, leaving many more Elves in possible danger, including whatever poor Elf they eventually managed to capture for their evil plan. _Whatever plans that may be._

Aragorn rubbed his aching temples surreptitiously. He had been through this so many times he could have recited it on command, if any had been there to listen to his odd tale. _I can’t find the goblet on my own, with or without the Elf._ He knew that even should he return to Fulton, it could take him hours, if not days, to find the farmer to determine the location of the goblet. _By then, they could have the goblet, and if I don’t take the Elf with me, there is no telling what they may do to him._

Such thoughts led him back to his foremost problem: how to keep the Elf from further harm. _I could certainly remain with the group if I knew the Elf would be safe. However, I would risk giving myself away if I was too concerned with his welfare, and then neither of us would be safe._ The Ranger closed his eyes and wished that Lord Elrond were here to sort this out for him. _If Ada were here I wouldn’t be in this situation,_ Aragorn thought dejectedly. _The mercenaries would be on their knees, begging Ada for mercy at the mere lifting of one of his eyebrows._ Snorting without sound or true mirth, the Ranger again shook his head only barely, and then watched the Elf as his breathing changed. _He will wake soon._

Aragorn had seen the caresses Ramlin had given their captive the night before, when the mercenary had retied the creature. The Ranger had battled himself not to relieve the giant of his roaming hands, for he would not stand idly by while the Wood-Elf was molested, but luckily for them all, Ramlin had ceased his attentions before Strider's anger had overwhelmed his better sense. _If he tries it again, I do not know what I will do. Killing Ramlin would not leave me in good standing with Ament,_ Estel told himself facetiously.

In the end, it came down to a simple decision that Aragorn did not feel was his to make. He could flee with the Elf, save their lives but endanger many more Elves, or he could put into danger this one immortal life in hopes of saving countless others. That he wasn’t assured of what the goblet could do, much less that it was where the farmer claimed, made his deliberation that much more tricky. _I would risk this Elf's life on nothing more than chance and hearsay from a drunken fool._

The sounds of the others moving about the cave drew the Ranger from his reverie. He contemplated continuing his charade of sleeping when he heard the nearing footsteps; however, he decided to rise, for this moment was inevitable. Rolling over, Aragorn stretched himself out and rubbed his eyes as if he were just waking.

“Strider... the Elf, will he be able to ride today?” Ament crouched down next to the Ranger’s prone form, peering over him to check the Elf’s condition for himself. As the Ranger moved, Ament stood up, giving Aragorn room to sit.

 _Here it is, the moment of decision and I’ve not thought of anything yet._ He made a show of rubbing his head, his arms, anything to stall answering.

“Strider, man, have you gone deaf in the night?” Ament’s usual scowl decorated the man’s face but his words were lilting in cheerfulness.

_I am obviously on his good side for saving his cargo._

“No, no. Just tired," he tried to jest in return, his mind working to find a way to stall answering Ament's questions.

“And the Elf? I would not have him dying before he is meant to,” the mercenary joked with a loud bray of laughter.

Ament’s prodding forced Aragorn into a decision, and he finally admitted, “I think he is able to ride.”

“Good, then. Eat and prepare quickly – we’ve much distance to cover this day. More rain comes.”

_Why did you do that, Estel? What now?_

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As pleased as he was that the Elf was well, that they would be moving on this morning, and that overall his plans were coming to fruition, Ament was discontented nonetheless. _Ramlin will not spoil my efforts. I will succeed._

He had left Strider to his breakfast with the others and walked outside for fresh air. The night’s rain glistened on the foliage of the surrounding forest. The river’s tempo had increased from the torrential rainfall; the sound carried over a gentle breeze that stirred the leaves of the trees, the shimmering water dropping from them seemed to be bits of mithril falling from the heavens.

Ament noticed none of this beauty because his thoughts were focused instead on last night’s conversation around the fire. Ramlin had been insistent on having his way with the Elf, something that though Ament found disgusting, he would not normally mind allowing his brother. _Personally, I could mind less what happens to the Elf, as long as he still breathes when I have the goblet. After that, I can obtain Elves aplenty, and Ramlin could have a new one each day for his fun for all that I care._

It was not his brother’s perversity that bothered Ament; it was as Ramlin said, the pleasure in others’ pain that the younger brother enjoyed had suited his elder brother's purposes on many occasions, and Ament was more than satisfied with the results. However, his brother had come dangerously close to mutiny the night before, as far as Ament was concerned. _How dare he question my judgment? The fool knows naught but how to kill and torture. He has no ambition for our future._ Ament smirked as he walked to the horses, correcting himself, _He has no ambition for_ my _future. Ramlin may not live long enough to enjoy tomorrow if he does not keep his hands, and his thoughts, to himself._

Ament had seen the glimmer of lust in Doran and Jalian’s eyes when Ramlin had voiced his desires, though for these two, their prurient thoughts had been for the money obtained in selling the Elf, and not in the Elf's destruction, which was Ramlin's goal. It had upset the mercenary leader to see that if he tried hard enough, Ramlin could force Ament’s hand and turn the others against him. _Mayhap I will let them play with the Elf. It is nothing to me, only a means to an end. The others could have their fun, and I can keep them satisfied long enough to fulfill my own desires._ Ament saddled his horse, preparing it for the long journey. _No,_ _Ramlin would likely kill the Elf. He doesn’t know when to quit, and Doran and Jalian would still wish to sell it._

It hadn’t been but over a year earlier that Ament had made the mistake of not supervising his brother’s ‘fun,’ which had cost the brothers what would have been a handsome bounty from their robbery. When Ament had returned from ransacking an inn they had attacked while the inn was vacant of guests, the imprisoned innkeeper had been nothing more than a bloody, unrecognizable body lying behind his counter. Ramlin, of course, in his haste, had forgotten to question the innkeeper about where he hid his coins, and the brothers had only managed to procure a few pieces of jewelry and some silver from their pillage.

Meika had shown no emotion last night during Ramlin's argument to break the Elf and sell it, as Ament had expected from the elder man, for Meika had not been influenced into joining their cause by any hatred towards the Elves, though he also seemed not to care for them. _No, Meika stays for the promise of wealth. He has no desire for bloodshed. He has the love of riches, but lacks the taste for inflicting pain – he would make an ill replacement for Ramlin._ Ament’s own thoughts surprised him, and he paused in readying his horse as he realized the depths of conviction behind his thoughts. Often the mercenary had considered leaving his brother’s company and had threatened to rid himself of Ramlin by slitting his throat; never, though, had he considered replacing him, and never so sincerely. _Never has there been so much at stake. Ramlin is replaceable. Mindless thugs who can follow orders are plentiful._

He walked back to the cave, listening to Jalian telling the others a wild story about some exploit the disfigured man was sure never to have experienced, and pondering once again why he accepted Strider into the fold. _He has proved the most capable of them all thus far. He kept the Elf alive, and for that, I would welcome him even were he an enemy._ Ament smirked again at his own inconsistency, though his face slipped back into its usual scowl when entering the cavern. _Perhaps I will let Strider use the Elf. He has earned it._

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Rambunctious laughter woke Legolas from his deep sleep. Blinking his eyes repeatedly, he looked above him at the curved ceiling of the cave, which was ragged with lichen-covered stalactites. The last several days the Elf had spent in confusion, but this time he knew exactly where he was and found his mental faculties in working order. The Wood-Elf hesitated before turning his head to view his surroundings more clearly. _I’ve no wish to attract their attentions._ He failed in this regard, as his movement attracted the notice of Ramlin immediately, whose delight at seeing the archer awake was evident in the leer he sported. The colossal mercenary made as though to rise but Strider moved more quickly, picking up his pack along his way to the Elf. Ramlin reseated himself, content that the healer was preparing their cargo for the journey.

The gray eyes of the Adan searched the Elf’s body. At first, Legolas felt the man’s eyes as he had felt Ramlin’s hands; that is, until the man knelt down next to him with water skin in hand, an evaluating and somewhat aloof expression on his face. _He must truly be a healer._

Legolas watched taciturnly as Strider took from his pack a small leaf-wrapped packet of Elven waybread, which he hid in the folds of tunic over his lap. _Where did he obtain this? The Elves are not wont to trade with just any human._ The man moved in front of Legolas’ head, blocking his view of the men who were moving out of the cave with saddles and gear in hand, and broke the bread into small pieces where it lay.

“Here, you need to eat,” Strider offered, a piece of the waybread between his fingers. He moved to place the bread in the Elf’s mouth but Legolas turned his head.

“I would feed myself.”

“And we would both die if I cut your bonds for you to do so. Eat, please.”

Grudgingly, Legolas opened his lips to accept the bit of bread. The Adan fed him several pieces, glancing to the cave’s opening occasionally as if on watch for the other men. When the last piece had been eaten, Strider offered the Elf a drink of water. Again, Legolas turned his head to avoid the proffered sustenance, asking, “What is in it, human?”

“Nothing. It is just water. Hurry. We do not need them to find out I am helping you.”

The archer drank heavily from the bladder, his thirst winning out over any objections he might have had to accepting the man's aid. _He speaks as if though we were captives together._ Legolas tried to remember the conversation he had with Strider the night before. _He asked me to trust him. That I remember._ The Elf attempted to move his legs and his arms, which were still tied behind his back: he could not feel his appendages but assumed they were just numb from lack of circulation. He realized with joy that his legs would obey him despite their numbness, though whether he could walk he did not know.

Strider checked the bandages on his leg, replacing the linen with a fresh wrapping. _Only a healer carries around that much bandage,_ the Prince noted, seeing the many rolls of clean cloth in the human's satchel. “Why do you help me, human? Surely your fellow mercenaries do not need me to be healthy for what they plan for me.”

The human tightened the bandaging and then laid Legolas' leg back to the ground gently. “The name is Strider.”

“Forgive me... Strider. Why do you help me?” Legolas was surprised that he had apologized to the human, as it had slipped out without his meaning to do so. _Mayhap, even if I cannot trust him, I can use him to escape._

“I help you because I cannot bear to watch another suffer,” the healer told him, capping the flask of water and replacing his items once more into his bag.

“Even if it is an Elf that suffers?” There was no sarcasm in Legolas’ voice, for he only felt astounded that the human would be moved by his suffering.

“Even if it is an Elf, yes.” The man looked up from checking the temperature of the Elda’s leg, the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile. “What is your name?”

Legolas was sure the human would not know him but did not want anyone to discover his royal status. _I will not be priced. I will not be ransomed._ Aloud he replied the first name that came to him, “Tauron.”

Strider’s lips curled up further until he was nearly grinning. “Forester is a fitting name for a Silvan Elf.” He tied off the bandage and stood. “I imagine they are waiting for us.” Legolas watched as the man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose distractedly.

“Last night when we talked you said you would help me escape.”

A pained look crossed the human’s face. “I did. You are not well enough yet. We must bide our time, until you are better.”

“It is complicated, right?”

The pained look returned to the human’s face to stay. “It is, my friend. I am sorry that I cannot explain it now. Trust me, please. I will let no harm come to you if I can help it.”

Legolas realized his skepticism must have shown clearly in his expression for the man only sighed again. Strider made as if to speak but Ramlin and Doran appeared in the cave entrance. Ramlin ordered, “Strider, saddle your mount. We will take the Elf.” Strider only looked down uncertainly at the Prince before taking his bag in hand, collecting his saddle, and exiting the cave.

Suddenly, Legolas was left alone with the object of his newfound hatred, a loathing that filled his normally mirthful soul with black thoughts. Inside himself, the Elf feared the man’s touch again: outside, his calm façade did not betray his fears. “Have you ever seen a fairer being, Doran?” Ramlin sneered at Legolas.

“Nay, Ramlin, those two idiots brought back the finest Elf flesh I have ever seen. Jalian says he could fetch a high price.”

Ramlin rolled his eyes at his companion. “Ament will not see reason.” Unable to evade the man, Legolas did not challenge the mercenary when he bent down to scoop up the Elf in his massively muscled arms. Bouncing the Elf slightly in his embrace, Ramlin laughed derisively, “He weighs nothing. He is lighter than air.”

It was Doran’s turn to roll his eyes. “He is the same size as me, Ramlin. It is only that your size is so great that you think him light.”

Legolas tried futilely to hold his bound body away from the mercenary’s chest, but Ramlin leant down so that his face was inches from the Elf’s face. Not wanting the man to see his panic, Legolas glared scathingly at Ramlin, realizing that in his position he was not very intimidating, bound and at the mercenary's mercy as he was. “I bet he taste like berries, Doran, what do you think?”

“Try him,” the archer retorted huskily, clearing his throat as he watched on with curiosity.

It was all the encouragement that Ramlin needed. He pressed his lips against the Elf’s lips, licking them delicately. Had the two been lovers, the act would have been tender, but the Elf and man both knew what the act was: domination and the love of inflicting suffering. Legolas drew his head back as far as he could with no success, for he could not flee the man’s mouth. Ramlin’s tongue pried at the archer’s lips, seeking entrance. Legolas allowed the man’s tongue in, but as the mercenary sought entrance past the Elf’s parted teeth, Legolas promptly closed them over the thick tongue invading his mouth.

Ramlin let loose a strangled cry of pain and rage, dropping Legolas to the stone and hardened soil floor of the cave. The mercenary held his tongue, small droplets of blood falling between his fingers, while glowering over the Elf. Doran looked on in humor and anticipation, glancing between Ramlin and the Elf as if waiting for one to explode into a fit of rage. Legolas only lay as he had fallen, for he was still bound. He knew he had hit his head hard enough to draw blood. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth, as well, and the coppery taste gave the Elf satisfaction. It was not his essence that stained his lips.

“Ramlin, Doran, get out here!” Ament’s furious demand snapped Doran and Ramlin back to the present. Unwilling to let his injury go without retaliation, Ament spat the blood from his mouth out onto the ground. Powerless to defend himself, Legolas could only observe as Ramlin’s immense fist rammed into his unprotected midsection. The Elf curled in on himself with the pain of the blow but made no sound, giving Ramlin no chance for satisfaction in returning the painful favor. A hand in his flaxen hair yanked the archer to his knees.

Ramlin glared down at the Elf maliciously. “You will pay dearly for that.” The hand in his hair loosed itself unexpectedly, causing Legolas to fall once again to the firm dirt and stone floor. “Get him outside, Doran. If I touch him again, it will be to rip his pretty head from his shoulders.” Doran complied quickly, his humor falling at the ire with which his friend spoke, and grabbed the Elf. The human pair and their captive went out into the sunlight.

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A servant entered the throne room in Mirkwood’s palace bearing a plate of food. The King’s advisor promptly took the plate to the King, hoping that this time the sovereign would see sense and partake of the nourishment. The King had not eaten or slept since he had learned of Legolas’ disappearance, having refused to leave his throne room lest Legolas be returned and Thranduil not be at hand to witness it. He was in no danger of starvation or exhaustion; however, his advisor feared the worst for the young Prince of Eryn Galen, and if the King neither ate nor slept now when hope remained, the King would fade quickly should the worst come to pass.

After the report had arrived that blood had been found close to the scouting troupe’s campsite, King Thranduil had immediately ordered all the searchers to focus on that area. The delay between the King’s orders and the movement of concentration was short; yet, the rain had poured from the sky, the blood had washed away or soaked into the ground, and the prints around the site had been scattered and destroyed by the softening soil and disrupted grass and leaves. Had not the sentry Tirn took it upon himself to track the prints after sending out a runner to inform King Thranduil, the direction the Prince and his captors had traveled would have been lost.

Tirn stood before the King now, silently waiting for any more questions. The advisor placed the plate before Thranduil, who did not even acknowledge its presence.

“That is it, then. They took to the river. They did not cross it?” the King asked, shaking his head in disbelief or denial.

Tirn bowed his head before his King. Although it was not his fault that the captors had taken boats down the Anduin, he felt responsible anyway. “They did not cross, sire. I swam across myself to check. At that time, the rain had yet to wash away the tracks on the eastern side and the western side had no tracks. The ground was marred as though a boat had been pushed into the river, your Majesty.”

An uncomfortable silence overtook the three Elves ere the King spoke softly, his golden hair falling over his face as he lowered his head to stare at the plate on his table. “Thank you, Tirn. Your service to me and dedication to Legolas is commendable. You are excused.”

The sentry left, his shoulders slumped in defeat, much like the two Elves he left behind. 


	6. Chapter 6

To claim that Estel was undecided as to whether he should let Ramlin and Doran carry the Elf would have been a gross understatement. _I had no choice to leave Tauron. It is folly to raise their suspicions now when he is unable to escape._ His logic did not save him from the overwhelming feeling that he had betrayed the Wood-Elf when Ramlin and Doran exited the cave.

 _Ai Valar! Can they not keep their hands to themselves? I left him alone for only moments._ Aragorn sighed, an act that was quickly becoming a habit. It would take a thorough examination to determine what damage the oaf had done to the Elf this time; however, at first glance, Tauron did not appear to be injured greatly, and in fact, from what Aragorn could see, appeared self-satisfied. _I should have known that Ramlin had no control in this matter, especially not after his actions last night._

“Ramlin. You have disobeyed my order to leave the Elf be.” Ament spoke in a quiet, dangerous tone that incited contrition from his younger brother immediately.

“He started it, brother, he...” Ramlin ceased his explanation, a blush tingeing his wide, tanned face in realization that he sounded like a child in his arguments.

“I’m sure he did, Ramlin. The bound, mute Elf started a fight with you, did he?” Ament’s anger had not abated but he grinned in enjoyment at the humiliation his brother was experiencing. “Looks like he got the best of you, too.” Meika and Jalian snickered softly, only to be silenced by a sinister smile from Ament.

Ramlin rumbled incoherently, spitting blood onto the grass beside him, while Doran hefted the burden he carried, jostling the Elf about in an attempt to retain his hold on the archer and asking, “What should I do with him, Ament?”

Happy not to be the center of attention anymore, Ramlin ordered, “Hand him to me after I have mounted.”

“No,” his brother countered snidely, “we wouldn’t want you to get hurt again. Hand him to Strider.”

Aragorn pulled himself onto his horse, successfully suppressing a sigh of relief when Doran made to hand him the Elf. He did not want Tauron to ride with his attacker, especially now that the mercenary had been embarrassed in front of the other men. Ramlin, for his part, did not complain, but only mounted his horse, casting only a cursory glare at Strider for his relieved, if unwilling participation in Ramlin's displeasure.

“How do I seat him?” Doran’s face was flushed with the exertion of carrying the Elf, and he nearly dropped Tauron in his inability to keep the Elda in his arms.

“Damn it. Am I the only one around here with any sense?” Sliding from his saddle in irritation, Ament walked to where Doran strained to keep the Elf from falling. “Stand him up.”

Although he wobbled, Aragorn was ecstatic to see the Elf stand on his own. _He recovers quickly. A day or more and mayhap he could run._

Their leader quickly discerned that he could not seat the Elf astride the horse without cutting Tauron's feet loose, nor could the Elf be managed when seated upon the horse if his feet were not tied. Rubbing his jaw in contemplation, Ament gazed back and forth between the captive and Strider’s horse. _We will never leave at this rate._

“Perhaps if we tied his ankles to mine while he sat before me. He will not fall that way, and he could not escape,” Aragorn offered, not sure he liked the suggestion, but willing to endure it if it meant that they could continue their journey. Ament thought about this solution, Doran wiped his brow of the sweat gathered there from his earlier effort in keeping the Elf aloft, and Tauron only stood unwaveringly, his emotionless gaze fixed on Estel.

“Excellent suggestion, Strider,” Ament declared all of a sudden, clapping his hands together and turning on his heel to retrieve the rope from his pack. Heaving breathily, Doran, with the help of the Ranger, lifted Tauron onto the horse to sit sidesaddle in front of Aragorn. Ament returned with a gleaming dagger and a coil of rope, the former of which he handed to the Ranger, who accepted it questioningly.

“Keep him in line, Strider.” Pulling a small knife from his boot, Ament knelt down to reach Tauron's bound feet, looking up to Strider to ensure he was prepared. Estel held the knife lightly to Tauron’s throat, the blade turned deceptively outwards in an attempt to avoid harm to his charge, while giving the appearance that he would cut the Elda should he try to flee. As a team, Ament and Doran cut the rope, retying the Elf’s left ankle to the Ranger’s ankle, and then lowering Estel's horse’s head so that they could swing the captive’s leg over to the other side, they tied the Elf’s right ankle to Strider’s ankle. Satisfied that the creature could not escape, for the Wood-Elf's feet were immobilized and his hands still tied, the mercenary ordered, “Mount, Doran. We leave now.”

Aragorn handed the borrowed blade to Ament. The Elf sat before him inanimately, his back straight and his head held proudly forward, but a tangle of golden hair at the crown of Tauron’s dignified head was discolored with silvery crimson blood. As Estel’s horse jerked forwards to follow the others, he pondered melancholically, _I cannot keep him safe, not even for a few moments. What will I do?_

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Tirn paced restlessly in the main hall outside the large doors of King Thranduil’s throne room. _That cannot be it. The King cannot give in so easily._ Shaking his fair head, Tirn once again placed his hand upon the handle of the door he paced in front of, stopping himself from entering. The two Elves guarding the door looked at one another in amusement, trading sorrowful smiles at the sentry's hesitation. Tirn had been pacing for over half an hour, occasionally refraining long enough to place his hand again on the handle before turning about and resuming his pacing. _Prince Legolas is not lost to us. Why does he grieve so? We may yet find him._ Once more, he grasped the handles to the throne room door, intent on throwing them open and pleading with the King to continue the search. The doors, however, swung inwards precisely then, carrying Tirn inwards with them, and causing the fair sentry to crash directly into the King’s advisor. The two landed in a tangled heap on the threshold.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” Tirn voiced once he had disentwined himself from the elder Elf. He helped the disgruntled advisor stand, brushing the dust from the advisor's robe, his fair face the color of a ripe tomato in horror at his unintentional assault upon the King's trusted servant.

“Never mind, Tirn," the advisor told him, brushing Tirn's hands away impatiently. "King Thranduil wished to see you. I was on my way to find you but it seems you found me first.”

“Of course, my Lord. Right away.” Tirn bowed slightly, following the advisor back into the throne room.

King Thranduil sat at a small table, picking pieces of fruit from his plate only to toss them back down absentmindedly. The advisor announced Tirn’s presence and then walked towards the doors, nodding to Tirn on his way, who awaited the King to address him. After several minutes of watching his King play with food, Tirn cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, you wished to see me?”

The sentry was bewildered by the misery that shone through in Thranduil’s otherwise blank expression. The sovereign of Mirkwood stared at Tirn as though he was trying to ascertain something, though what his King looked for, the warrior did not know. When the King finally spoke, Tirn had to move closer to him to hear the hushed words. “I do not want my son to die, Tirn. I want him to be found.”

Not knowing how to respond but deciding to push the issue of the search, the sentry replied, “Neither do I, your Majesty. None in Eryn Galen would wish such a thing. They still desire to search, my King. Why do we not...”

Thranduil interrupted with a belabored sigh, “We cannot afford the warriors. Any who leave for this wild goose chase down the river means fewer to protect our people. Our number of warriors is already diminished and grows more so every day in fighting the Darkness. There are increased attacks along the north and the spiders are growing bolder as the game in the south becomes scarce.” The King paused, his usually regal face contorted with bitter emotion. “I want my son back, Tirn, but the kingdom must come before his safety. Legolas would not begrudge us tending to Greenwood’s needs first, and nor should we be guilty in doing so. Do you understand this?”

 _No, I do not understand this_ , the Elf thought morosely, though he knew that what the King told him was correct. “I will go myself, your Majesty. I will look for the Prince.”

His proclamation stupefied them both, causing Tirn to start and Thranduil to lift both golden eyebrows in surprise. “You are a sentry of the palace, Tirn, not a scout or a warrior of the forest. You’ve little experience outside the palace, keeping watch over Legolas within these walls.”

Tirn hung his head dejectedly, again realizing that the wise King of Eryn Galen spoke truthfully, even should Tirn not wish to admit his own incompetence in such matters. “Then I am most expendable. I would go for Legolas... and for you, my King.”

A faint smile lit Thranduil’s face, a smile that the King turned upon the disarrayed plate of food on his table. “You are not expendable, Tirn.”

Taking this as a rejection, the sentry protested fervidly, “I will find the Prince. I will, your Majesty.” The King only quirked his eyebrow again, returning his attention to throwing the fruit about his plate. Silence filled the large, empty, stone throne room. “Please.”

Thranduil stood, pushing his chair back as he did so, his bearing no longer that of a grieving father. With the hauteur of his royalty, the King looked down at the shorter sentry, a ghost of a smile still on his lips at memories of long ago, when an Elfling Prince was lost in the forest. “Go then, Tirn. If any would find him, it would be you.”

The unexpected approval temporarily stunned Tirn, causing him to stammer, “Th-thank you, your Majesty. I will return with the Prince.” The sentry knew the promise sounded empty; he also knew he would return with the Prince or not at all.

His mind reeling with thoughts of the many preparations he would need to make before his departure, the fair Elf made to leave the throne room and almost made it to the door before the King stopped him, saying, “And Tirn, the carpets in the main hall are older than you. Please do not wear them out walking in circles.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The journey thus far had been uneventful. _Thankfully, for should we run into Orcs I would be useless strapped to a bound Elf._ Aragorn yearned to apologize to the Wood-Elf, to try to explain what was happening, and to make certain Tauron was well. _I should never have left him alone with Ramlin._ The mercenary in question turned often to glare trenchantly in the Elf and Strider’s general direction, though whether the stare was for him or the Elf, or both, the Ranger could not say. The constant supervision precluded any discussion. He wanted desperately to speak with the wounded Elda – Tauron’s halcyon demeanor perturbed the Ranger because he knew not what it hid. _He may well be mortally injured and yet would keep his stoicism._

“Ramlin, Meika!” Ament called from the front of the formation. “Go find Jalian and Doran. You two can surveil for a while.” Knowing this was his last opportunity at casting a withering gaze towards the Elf and Ranger, Ramlin scowled fervently, almost mimicking his brother’s usual expression perfectly, ere he spurred his horse into galloping forward in search of their companions.

Ament slowed his pace to allow Strider to catch up to him, obviously intending to converse. “How is the Elf, Strider?”

“I do not know. He does not appear to be injured badly, Ament, though he could have been.” Strider had been unable to stop the resentful tone of his voice, as much as he tried, and then held his breath as he waited for the lead mercenary's suspicion.

Ament, however, simply nodded in agreement. “Ramlin has his mind set to make the Elf his slave.” The mercenary glanced at Tauron, who remained as aloof as ever, not indicating he was listening to their conversation, whereas both men knew he listened to every word.

“I admit that his plan for the Elf would be easier, though not as satisfactory," he told the mercenary, adding, "and I do not understand why we must take the Elf with us." Strider tried to look innocent as he questioned Ament for information, though he was not one for prevarication, and only hoped Ament did not see this. _Elladan and Elrohir always claimed I was never good at looking innocent, either, though I think I have proven my worth as a liar thus far._ "Why do we need the Elf?”

The mercenary’s red hair shone brilliantly in the sunlight, almost blindingly, as it reflected the radiance of the mid-morning sun: Ament nodded his head sagely. “Meeting you in Fulton was a stroke of luck, Strider.”

 _That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for._ Galloping horses approached them: Jalian and Doran had returned, having been relieved by Ramlin and Meika in their surveillance.

Ament beamed at the Ranger, prodding his horse into a trot to meet the men as he told Aragorn, “The Elf is the key to what we want. We need him alive,” before leaving Estel and Tauron behind.

When the men ahead were out of hearing range, the no longer reticent Elf noted caustically, “How relieving.”

Aragorn startled at the Elf’s sudden disturbance of his deep musing, which in turn caused his mount to skitter nervously: Estel had been brooding over the recondite answers Ament had given him and had not paying attention to those around him. “Valar, Tauron,” he hissed. The Wood-Elf only sighed in response. With the chance to confer with the captive, Aragorn immediately began his apology. “I am sorry. I should not have left you with Ramlin. I did not think him so bold, not with others watching him and Ament having made clear that you were to be left alone.” Tauron said nothing, and so the Ranger continued, “Are you injured?”

The Elf shook his head in negation. “No, I am uninjured.”

Aragorn decided not to press the matter, despite the evidence to the contrary in the bloom of blood on Tauron's scalp: Elves were proud and therefore unwilling to be seen as frail. Instead, he asked, “What happened?”

“I bit him.” The Elf said no more, not elaborating on the circumstances surrounding the incident. Not that he needed to do so; Aragorn could well imagine how Ramlin’s tongue had become the Elf’s target. “How did you come to be with these men, Strider?”

The unanticipated change in topic put the Ranger on the defensive. “I am not with these men; I only travel with them because they know the whereabouts of something that I myself should like to find.”

“You want what they want. The goblet.”

Estel was startled yet again, but then grew excited to think that the Elf might know more than he did about Melfren. “You know of the goblet? What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the older man and the scarred one talking about it.” Turning his head and torso to face Aragorn as well as he could, though he kept his body carefully away from the Ranger at all times, Tauron continued, “They said it would make mortals immortal.”

The Ranger gasped. _I still cannot remember. Is this not what Ada told me of it?_

“Judging from your reaction, I suppose Ament saw fit to leave out this detail?” Returning his view to the men in front, Tauron added softly, accusingly, “They seek it to destroy the Elves. You say you desire what they seek.”

Aragorn could see the Elf’s line of logic, prompting him to quell the accusation before the Wood-Elf could doubt him. “Nay, I seek the goblet to keep it from them. It’s...”

“Complicated, right?”

Refraining from sighing, the Ranger agreed, “Indeed. Listen, Tauron, I will see you out of this alive, but they cannot obtain the goblet, at any cost.”

“Because you wish it for yourself.”

Unable to make clear his own intentions for the goblet, Aragorn tried to explain, “I wish it, yes... well, no, not for myself. I do not want them to have it, yes, but...” A call from the front ended the Ranger’s pitiful explanation.

“We cross the river,” Ament shouted, “the water is shallow at this point.”


	7. Chapter 7

After crossing the river, the human had tried to talk to Legolas again, but was forced to quiet when Ramlin quickened to ride beside them, eying the beautiful Elf with undisguised lust. _Strider is after this goblet, too,_ the Prince meditated, ignoring the greasy mercenary staring at him, _though he speaks as if his aims were loftier._

Legolas was perplexed. The man had apologized for leaving him with Ramlin, he had assisted him in recovering from the poison, fed him, and treated him with respect, yet he conceded that his goal was the same as the men who had captured him. _He wants the goblet for his own purposes. He fancies riches or immortality. Either way, he is willing, despite his claim that he would aid me, to keep me in captivity as long as his purposes are served._

An ache had settled in the archer’s head that rivaled the ache in his still healing leg. _I could stand earlier. Mayhap I could escape._ The thought brought optimism to the dismal drama in which he currently found himself. After crossing the river, Legolas had been surprised to find they were traveling eastwards, back to Mirkwood, or so it seemed. _If we travel further east, we may encounter a border patrol._ The Elves of Eryn Galen had been driven from the south of the forest where Dol Guldur lay, even as far north of the abandoned tower as they headed, but Legolas allowed himself to hope to encounter some of his brethren.

“Halt, Ament, we are tired. Let us break, brother!” Ramlin dismounted without awaiting his brother’s assent, and stalked off into a nearby copse of trees.

 _Nature calls._ Unexpectedly, Legolas knew how he might escape.

The others stopped, also, stretching their legs and digging in their packs for sustenance. Ament and Meika ambled to Strider’s horse, two knives and the coil of rope in Ament’s hands. They set about silently removing and retying the ropes about Legolas’ legs as Strider held the second knife uselessly at the Elf’s throat, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Legolas, before finishing with binds in place around the Prince's ankles anon.

“Put him by that tree, Strider. We might as well rest awhile.” Ament turned to Jalian. “Pass the bread, man, I’m starving.” Strider picked up Legolas with ease, placing him next to a tree gently and helping the Prince to sit in some semblance of comfort. The human joined his fellow conspirators in their meal, though, eating and drinking as one of them, his back to the Elf. The men sat down together, passing flasks and bread, making small talk.

Ramlin returned to the small clearing, seated himself down beside Ament, grabbed a flask of water, and turned the conversation towards the task at hand, asking, “How much longer, Ament?”

“We’ve only been riding for half a day, brother.”

“I am anxious to see our plans succeed,” Ramlin replied, glancing briefly at Legolas before continuing, “Besides, the rain comes again. We should try to make the forest before then.”

_We are going back to Mirkwood? Are these humans mad? The woods around Dol Guldur are riddled with Orc and spiders._

Ament narrowed his eyes in blatant incredulity at his brother's readiness to obey his plans. “No more than two days ride and we will reach our destination.”

“I cannot believe it!” Doran’s excitement lit the archer’s blond, bearded face, smiling as he exclaimed, “Two more days and we will have the chance to even the odds against the Elves!”

Their leader sniggered, still looking at Ramlin in disbelief. “You mean you two have given up your scheme so easily?”

Ramlin glared at his brother while Doran protested, “I care not about it, Ament. Either way I get what I want. It will only take longer your way.”

 _It seems Ament is not so easily convinced, at any rate,_ the Elf mused, seeing Ament narrow his eyes further in disbelief.

“I have heard that the Elven King Thranduil has more riches than any of the Elves. Imagine what we could do with that wealth,” Meika offered in an attempt to diffuse the tense atmosphere. “I say we start with Mirkwood.” Legolas stiffened at the mention of his father and home, his warrior's instinct immediately on high alert that any attempt would be made to cause harm to his people.

Jalian rubbed his hands together, contemplating. “The Elves won’t know what hit them, will they Meika? They’ll certainly be surprised. We need to be more planned, though, about how we attack. We cannot just walk into their realm, expecting them to hand the wealth over.”

“Of course not. Don’t worry, I’ve planned this well,” Ament assured, taking a long drink of water before he continued. “When the time comes, there will be no resistance.” No one questioned Ament’s declaration, he had lead them this far and all had gone well; besides, Legolas could tell that save for Strider, the other mercenaries likely did not have the wits to doubt the fiery-haired mercenary.

“I think I’ll buy Minis Tirith.” The men laughed vigorously at Meika’s jest.

“Tell the truth, Meika, tell them what you want,” Jalian prodded the now blushing Meika.

“Ah, just a family and farm. Not much. Not Minis Tirith. What would I do with it?”

“You’ve no ambition, Meika. Strider and I plan to go on an Elf killing spree.” Doran looked expectantly at the healer, winking his eye at Strider as if they shared a secret between the two of them. “We’ll keep some, of course, for our slaves, but the rest I say we hang from their damn trees. How does that sound, Strider?”

_Yes, how does that sound, Strider?_

“It would take too much rope to hang that many Elves,” Strider retorted blithely. Legolas listened intently, wishing he could see the man’s face, as his apprehension to trust the healer returned tenfold.

“We will well be able to afford it!” Doran passed the flask onwards, his merriment at the daydream of slaughtering the Elves suddenly sobered. “We will both have our revenge, my friend. Tell me, Strider, what reasons have you to hate the Elves so much?”

Strider hesitated, an action not lost on Legolas, before he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then explained, “The Elves are responsible for the death of my parents.” The human looked down, seemingly lost in thought. “The Firstborn have spent their time in Middle Earth; it will soon be time for them to leave.”

“Indeed,” Jalian heralded emphatically, “and we shall help them along.”

A silence ensued until Meika again switched the conversation to less strained topics, bringing up the coming rain, but Legolas stopped paying attention. _So, the truth comes out._ The Prince could not understand why he felt betrayed. _His deception was believable. No matter,_ the Elf thought, shaking his head faintly to dispel his disappointment in the human, _he is just one more obstacle._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fretfully, Aragorn tore the chunk of bread he held into tiny pieces, waiting for Ament to give the order for their departure. _How will I explain this to Tauron? He doesn’t trust me as it is._ The Ranger had hoped he could dodge Doran’s inquiry; however, he could not yet flee with the Elf, therefore he was forced to prolong his farce and could not evade answering questions lest he bring suspicion to himself. _I wish Ament would tell us where we are going. If only I could see the map. I would not need to remain with these mercenaries if I knew were we are going._

Meika peered worriedly at the Ranger, who only smiled slightly in return. _Let him think I am upset over the topic of our last conversation._ Aragorn had only repeated what he had told Ramlin and Ament in Fulton, deciding he should stick with his lie.

Several more minutes passed in easy banter ere Ament stood, tossing his empty flask to Doran. “Come, gentlemen. Let us be off. We need the daylight.”

Bustling about the makeshift camp, the mercenaries gathered their belongings quickly. Estel walked to Tauron when he had replaced his own property, intent on speaking to him as soon as possible about what he knew the Elf had overheard. Ramlin followed him closely, however, his licentious ogling of the immortal causing the Ranger’s skin to crawl. When they had reached the captive, Ramlin bent down to cut the rope that detained the creature to the tree. _Valar, cannot Ament or one of the others help me to do this?_

Tauron’s icy gaze could easily have frozen the mortal in place had not the creature been restrained with no chance at following through with the threat his eyes promised. His gaze did not lessen in intensity when he turned his regard to the Ranger. _I suppose that settles it: there is no chance he wasn’t paying attention,_ Aragorn sulked. _I will have to talk to him soon._

Ramlin hoisted the Elf to his feet by his bound arms, something that Aragorn was certain must hurt. The mercenary was set to lug the captive to Strider’s mount when the Wood-Elf spoke, surprising the mercenary, who hadn’t yet heard their cargo utter a word.

“Nature calls,” Tauron spoke softly.

At first, neither man understood what the captive meant, their thoughts on much different subjects. Ramlin chortled in amusement at the Elf’s predicament when he caught on to Tauron’s meaning. “I’ll take you, Elfling,” the mercenary teased in a malicious tone, pulling the Elda closer to him as he spoke.

Aragorn’s protest over this suggestion never left his lips, for Ament piped from behind them, “I don’t think so, brother. Strider will take him.” The Ranger’s mollification at Ament’s order was short-lived when the leader commanded, “But go with them... in case the Elf causes trouble.”

“I’ll carry...” Ramlin endeavored to offer: Ament interrupted, “Cut his feet free and let him walk. The remnants of the blueweed should keep him slowed down.” He glowered at Strider and Ramlin in turn, “Do not let him escape.” The Ranger nodded and Ament's mammoth oaf of a brother only mumbled under his breath and sawed the coarse rope from the Elf’s ankles. The three then headed towards the copse of trees, Aragorn’s hand wound tightly about Tauron’s upper arm.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Legolas couldn’t believe his misfortune. _I had hoped to be entrusted unto Strider without the aid of the oaf._ The Elf concentrated on walking as wobbly as he might. _No need for them to know my legs, other than the soreness of the flesh wounds, are operational again. The Valar may be smiling down on me yet._ He hadn’t truly expected them to cut his binds so that he was able to walk, and had not been able to plan past getting away from the other mercenaries perhaps to convince Strider to release him, but now that he could move his legs, the Prince's plans had changed. _Their mistake. I will run as far as my legs will take me._

The sunlight fell in shafts through the boughs of the sparse trees, lighting the flowering undergrowth’s blooms, and giving the woodland creature confidence in what he was about to try. The trees sang to him as always, their song an uplifting melody that stirred within him a homesickness that he had never experienced so strongly before. _Soon, soon._

After a short distance, Strider stopped the Elf with a small tug on his arm. Ramlin stood facing them a few feet away, leering at Legolas in anticipation. The healer stepped in front of Legolas, grimacing in the mercenary’s direction. “I’ll cut your wrists free. Turn around.” Strider took out his dagger while Legolas turned, submitting his hands to the healer, and his heart beating faster as his captors' were about to make another mistake in his favor.

“I don’t think so,” growled Ramlin mightily. Grabbing Strider’s arm in his brawny fist, the mercenary yanked the healer’s arm back from his task, nearly cutting Legolas with the healer's knife as he did so. “He stays bound.”

Legolas turned, seeing Strider shoot Ramlin a mordant look of hatred, a look that Ramlin returned with pleasure. “Fine,” the healer conceded, pulling his arm free from the mercenary’s grasp, “I will help him.”

Ramlin grinned, eying the Elf vindictively, “No, I will help him. Go back to the others.”

Legolas choked back the panic that statement caused him. _I cannot trust Strider; he will leave me alone with him again. I have to go now._ The Elf held no weapon, his hands were tied behind his back, and he still recovered from poison to a wound that still grieved him, but he knew this might be the only chance he would get. _Wait until their attention is elsewhere,_ he advised himself, _because_ _you will need the head start._

Turning his back to Legolas, Strider confronted the man, stepping closer to him and declaring firmly but softly, “We’ve no time for this. Ament wishes to leave immediately.” The mercenary tried to shoulder the healer out of his way; however, Strider didn’t relent and moved his body into the other man’s body to block his access to the Elf. “Come on, Ramlin.”

“Move, boy,” the mercenary ordered, throwing his more massive frame into Strider's smaller one to displace the healer.

Still, Strider did not relent. “No, we need to hurry.”

Nimbly, Ramlin snagged the healer by the front of his leather overcoat, hauling him off the ground and into the tree next to them. He pressed his fistful of leather and cloth against Strider’s throat, making the man choke for air, while Legolas stepped back in surprise that the oaf would hurt one of his fellow mercenaries. With his face inches from that of the surprised healer, the brute hissed, “I think we’ve time, Strider. Go back to camp.”

“You will not have him,” the healer managed to counter as he clawed at Ramlin's hands to force the mercenary to release him, though his throat was constricted and his voice was barely a whisper. Enraged, Ramlin slammed the man into the trunk behind him again, knocking the air from Strider's lungs and tightening his pressure on the healer’s airway.

 _He is trying to help me,_ the Prince wondered in shock, hesitant for only a moment ere this realization caused him to ram his shoulder into Ramlin’s side, making the mercenary release his hold on the healer. Ramlin was taken off his guard; he had not been expecting the Elf to aid the healer, and bore a look of bewilderment while he stumbled backwards. The Prince wavered indecisively, for he was not willing to leave the healer to his death, but also not willing to stay for his own. Seeing that Strider was breathing though unconscious, he decided to flee and turned to do just that – his slow choice was moot when Ramlin’s fist shot out across the space between them, impacting with a crack against the back of Legolas’ head. He fell from the force of the blow, sprawled out face down in the thicket.

“Don’t leave so soon, Elfling, we’ve time for fun.”

Legolas was unable to recuperate with his hands still bound: he couldn’t lift himself from the ground fast enough to avoid Ramlin, whose booted foot kicked him in his back mercilessly. After several jolts of agony from the mercenary's angered retaliation, Legolas felt the man grabbing his ankles, pulling him from the underbrush, and simultaneously flipping the Prince over onto his back. The mercenary flopped down and used the Wood-Elf’s chest as a seat to pin him to the ground.

“I told you, Elfling, you will pay.”

Panicked by the man’s position above him, the Elf fought against the weight, seeking to free himself. Ramlin hammered the Prince’s stomach, trying to halt the creature’s attempts at escape long enough to trap Legolas’ legs beneath his. Legolas curled in on himself in pain, giving the mercenary the opening he needed to restrain the Elda’s thrashing limbs. With the man still astride him, his legs secured beneath those of the brute above him, and his hands still bound painfully behind his back, Legolas could do nothing but buck wildly against the mercenary, hoping to unseat him. The growing expression of lust on Ramlin’s face stopped his attempts summarily.

 _Please, Strider, wake up,_ he thought, wanting the healer to stop what Legolas himself could not.

Ramlin ripped at the Elf’s tunic, his colossal hands tearing the stout fabric apart so that the archer’s sinewy, pale chest was exposed. Legolas watched in repugnance and terror as the man leant down, the ravenous smile he shared with the Wood-Elf renewing the Prince's struggle. Giving the Elf a snide leer when Legolas could not free himself, the mercenary ran his hands along the smooth flesh of Legolas' chest before grasping the Prince’s jaw, forcing it open with pressure at its joints.

“Be nice, beautiful, and I’ll be nice to you,” Ramlin lied, before sinking his slimy tongue in the Elf’s mouth. The sensation of the man’s forced kiss drove Legolas to increase his struggle again with new resolve, but his writhing did little to relieve him of his burden.

_Valar, Strider, please wake up._

When the man had explored the Elf’s mouth thoroughly, plunging his tongue past that archer’s teeth and sliding it along the captive’s evasive own, he released Legolas’ jaw, leaning back. Ramlin licked his lips. “You _do_ taste like berries. I will have to tell Doran. Perhaps I can convince him to try you out for himself,” he said, chuckling.

Legolas turned his head, spitting the taste of the man out of his mouth, which earned him a powerful blow to the stomach in retribution. “You aren’t having fun, Elfling?” Ramlin chuckled again, this time more maliciously. “Do you taste so sweet everywhere?”

“You disgust me.”

Ramlin said nothing, unperturbed by his captive’s anger. The mercenary leant down again, bending to reach the archer’s chest with his mouth. Legolas fought for his release, glancing at the prone body of the healer a few feet away, hoping the man would awaken. With no alternative, the archer shut his eyes as Ramlin’s teeth grazed his chest, tugging forcefully at his nipple. The man’s hands roamed the Elf, molesting his body wantonly, followed by his tongue lavishing its unwanted attention across his skin. Though he did not cease his struggles, Legolas could feel himself growing despondent, as if he weren’t in the copse of trees being accosted by a foul human.

 _Do not give in,_ he told himself. _I will live through this, if only to see this human die._

“You taste like berries everywhere, pretty Elfling. Although there are places I’ve yet to savor.” Ramlin scooted himself further down his captive’s body, seating himself on the archer’s thighs. As he yanked at the lacings to the Elf’s leggings, the mercenary’s eyes glossed with lust at the salacious view of the increasingly exposed flesh before him. Without pressure on his chest to keep him down, Legolas tried to sit up, thinking he could pull his legs free to flee, but the instant his torso rose, Ramlin rammed his elbow into the Elf’s vulnerable stomach. Legolas fell to his side in pain, striving to breathe. He caught sight of the healer, who was still slumped against the tree as he lay, but appeared to be awakening.

Ramlin seized the Elf’s hips, flipped him over deftly so that Legolas was again lying face down on the ground, and quipped, “Sorry, Elfling, but we’re running out of time for our fun. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut it short this time.” The mercenary slid his hands up the unblemished milky skin of the Elf’s back, under the tattered tunic, before jerking the fabric of Legolas’ leggings downwards over the Prince’s hips. Legolas could feel the cool air hit his nude backside and shivered, not from the frigid air, but from the waves of revulsion that radiated at the touch of the man’s hands to his flesh.

No longer caring to keep his pride, Legolas shouted hoarsely in an attempt to rouse the unconscious healer further, “Strider!” A ruthless thump to his kidneys threw Legolas’ world into a gray haze, as the agony and despair of his situation overtook him. Although he could not see Ramlin, his keen hearing could ascertain that the man was working to unlace his own leggings. The Elf pled in a whisper, “No.”

“Don’t worry. This will be over soon,” Ramlin murmured in the Elf’s pointed ear, which he then licked lasciviously. The Prince of Eryn Galen could feel the human’s arousal rubbing against him. The man leant back, again grabbed the Elf’s hips in his hands, and lifted Legolas at the waist.

A shadow fell over the Elf and mercenary. It was the only notice Ramlin had of the oncoming attack, but his awareness came too late, leaving him defenseless as the hilt of Strider’s sword struck him with a resounding thump at the base of his skull. Legolas fell to his side in the grass with relief, astounded. He watched Ramlin crumple, falling to the ground, also. Promptly, the still disoriented healer made his way to the Elf, dropping to his knees, his worry obvious by his concerned expression.

“Tauron,” the healer said in a fierce whisper, trying to get the Elf to respond. Legolas’ eyes were still focused on his attacker, who was rising slowly, hand to the back of his head. Strider hauled the Elf to his feet and then grabbed the archer’s leggings, yanking them up and pulling the lacings in a few swift motions. “Tauron, run,” the healer murmured, ere turning to face the approaching mercenary.

At first, the Elf only continued to stare emotionlessly at the brutish human lunging towards him and the healer; however, his need for survival prevailed, and he bolted. His wounded leg throbbed but the Elf did not waver. Being caught again would be his eventual death, he knew, so Legolas sprang from the copse of trees, hoping his legs would not fail him, while making a wild run to the distant Mirkwood border.


	8. Chapter 8

_Aragorn needs us. He needs us now._ Elrohir’s entire being was flooded with these thoughts. _We need to find him. He needs us. Now._ His step faltered as his mind gave way to an overwhelming sense of urgency.

Elladan caught his twin before the dark haired Elf had hit the ground. The two had been standing at the mouth of a cave they oft sequestered themselves in when it snowed or rained, as the case would soon be, while traveling across the Misty Mountains. When Elrohir had finished his scouting and been about to declare the cave safe for their occupancy, he had collapsed into a bemused Elladan’s arms, though the elder Noldo's confusion had soon turned to fear.

“Elrohir! Brother, please, wake. What has happened?” The now serious Elladan heard nothing from the cave to indicate that his twin had incurred injury or trouble. “Elrohir, please, answer me.” His twin was not unconscious; Elrohir seemed to be looking through Elladan, and he mumbled incoherently under his breath, though what was said the elder brother could not tell.

_Legolas is there. And Aragorn needs us. Our Estel needs us._

Forthwith, Elrohir’s glazed eyes cleared, and he became aware that his brother loomed over him whilst he lay on the ground, Elladan’s cloak beneath his head.

“What has happened, Elrohir? You scared me half to Valinor!”

Elrohir only shook his head. “I do not know, muindor.” The Elf tried to raise himself but his twin’s hand pushed him tenderly back down to the ground.

“Are you hurt?”

“Nay.” The recollection of his powerful premonition washed over the prone Elf, who immediately sat up again, this time paying no attention to the hand that tried to stay his movement. “Elladan! We have to make haste to Eryn Galen. Aragorn and Legolas are in terrible danger.”

“What are you saying? We’ve not seen Prince Legolas for centuries, and Aragorn should be coming this way.” Elladan’s confusion at his twin’s behavior was increasing. “They do not even know each other. We do not even know the Prince... not well, anyway.” The son of Lord Elrond was abruptly taken aback by a sudden insight into Elrohir’s outburst. “You have had a vision, have you not?”

Their mother had been plagued with visions, and from her, Elrohir had gained this often horrible trait. Elladan did not need convincing any longer from his twin that they needed to travel and quickly. Elrohir tried to stand only to find his legs quavering beneath him. “I believe so. We need to find them.”

“But where are they? Estel was to be headed home – how came he to meet Legolas? Are they in Mirkwood? Are they...?”

Interrupting impatiently, Elrohir exclaimed, standing and pulling his brother up with him, “I know not, Elladan! Let us just go. The way will become known to us.”

Disregarding the contradiction of traveling to a place Elrohir had not bothered to specify, the twins forsook the comfort of the cave by mounting their horses and venturing further towards the clouds blackened with their heavy burden of rain; off the mountains did they go, and towards the unknown peril in which Elrohir believed their adopted brother and the Prince Legolas to be submerged.

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Aragorn had been ill prepared for that sight that had woken him from the darkness obscuring his thinking. Although he had heard Ramlin and Tauron speaking, only one word had permeated the murk: his own name. “ _Strider!”_ the Elf had shouted.

Tauron’s voice had been filled with terror and desperation. It had goaded him into opening his eyes, and then he had realized the extent to which Ramlin was taking his good time, his sickening idea of fun. The Ranger had fought back a wave of nausea that stemmed from his inability to draw in enough air to clear the black daze over his mind. He knew that the Elf had stopped the mercenary from breaking his neck or choking the life out of him; he would not let the Elf suffer any longer. _Goblet be damned; it is not worth this_ , he had thought, glad that he had awoken before serious harm had come to the Wood-Elf.

Giving Tauron the chance to flee had been the only way to ensure Ramlin could not further injure the fair creature, even if it meant facing Ramlin’s wrath. _Ament’s wrath will be more fearful to behold,_ the Ranger brooded distractedly, _if I live long enough to see it._

For now, as Ramlin barreled towards him, the Elf ran, and Aragorn seemed to be the focus of the mercenary’s attention. He squared his shoulders, ready for the assault. The mercenary carried no sword or dagger in hand and the Ranger would not escalate the altercation into further violence unless Ramlin initiated it. To Aragorn’s consternation, the mercenary ran through the lapse between the trees beside the Ranger and in the direction the Elf had taken – not towards him.

Estel stood only a second, mouth agape, peering after Ramlin, before sprinting after the mercenary, intending to impede the man from recapturing the Elf.

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Ament was rapping his fingers against his thigh in irritation. _How long can it take them to take an Elf to piss?_ He and the others were mounted and ready to leave, and his already thin patience was running out.

“Ament!”

Locating the source of his brother’s roaring voice, Ament kicked his horse frantically into motion, heading towards the grove of birches where Ramlin and Strider had taken the Elf. _What has that fool done now?_ It took only moments for the mercenary to reach Ramlin racing on foot after their captive, with Strider not far behind the two. The Elf bolted across the wide plain that they were traveling on, running towards the remote, shadowy green forest several hundred yards to the northeast. _If he makes it to the trees, we will never catch him._ Spurring his horse on faster, Ament made a beeline for the escaping Elf.

The mercenary could hear the screams of his brother behind him, advising him to catch the Elf. _Idiot, what do you think I am doing? If we lose the Elf, you are dead, brother._ An unexpected complication occurred to him: _The Elf knows too much. I cannot risk him confessing our plans to his kind._ The mercenary took the time to sigh in relief that he had worn his bow and quiver – he would rather the Elf be dead and find a new one than to risk his plan becoming exposed.

Yet, he never needed to use it, for as he rode abreast of his captive, he noticed the Elf’s bleeding leg and bound wrists, and realizing these as disadvantages, Ament leapt from the horse and onto the creature, who grunted loudly as they hit the ground. The two rolled in the tall grasses, Ament’s hold on the Elf never loosing, while the riderless horse slowed to a trot near the edge of the forest that was now only yards away. When the pair ceased their tumble, Ament sprang onto the injured Elf, pummeling the captive with his fists repeatedly in the face and torso to stun him. The creature struggled, half trying to evade the blows and half trying to squirm his way from underneath the man’s weight. As the mercenary straightened, the captive managed to free his legs, aiming to kick the man off and away from him, but Ament anticipated the action and grabbed the Elf’s injured leg between his hands. He wrung the bleeding wound with all his might, wrenching the already torn flesh in his twisting hands. Instantaneously, the Elf bellowed in pain, his back arching in a convulsive reflex to reach the leg that tortured him.

He sat on the captive, pinning his heaving chest to the grassy plain. Ament smiled maliciously down at the Elf, whose fair features had been bloodied during the resistance. The mercenary noted the creature’s disheveled, bruised appearance, his torn and tattered tunic, and the partially unlaced leggings. _Damn it, Ramlin..._ the mercenary began, but his attention wavered from his internal rant to the small, gold threaded crest on the inside pocket of the Elf’s tunic. Ament ran his fingers over the aureate insignia, knowing its origins and awed by its implications. _This Elf is Mirkwood royalty._ Ament stared at the creature intently, his recognition coming slowly.

The captive still gasped for air, his eyes fast shut, and his body wracked with tremors of agony and exhaustion: this did not halt Ament from venting his pent up hatred. He pelted the Elf across the face, trouncing the helpless body beneath him with a few blows to the chest as his ire overcame his plans. _Thranduilion. This is the son of Thranduil. Our revenge will come much sooner than I hoped._

Ament recomposed himself. He leant in over the Elf’s prone and unmoving body. “I know who you are,” the mercenary whispered in the Elf’s ear. “Thranduilion. Prince Legolas.” The captive’s eyes fluttered open. Ament harrumphed, his triumph glimmering in the incandescent sparkle of his dark eyes. “Long have I desired to see your father suffer for his greed, and you shall help me succeed.”

The Elf did not deny his royalty, his own eyes glinting proudly though his voice was broken from fatigue and abuse, countering, “My father’s greed? You have taken me from my home for your own greed. King Thranduil may enjoy his wealth but he has not stooped so low as this to obtain it.”

Ament drew his dagger from its scabbard and buried it hilt deep in the Elf’s right upper arm. “You know nothing of it! Do not be so quick to defend the murderer you call King and father.” The mercenary ripped the dagger from the creature’s limb savagely, extracting a low moan from the beaten Elf beneath him. Wondrous at his windfall, he regarded the captive, adding darkly, “I should give you to Ramlin for his pleasure, Elfling. If he knew who you were, he wouldn’t be as kind as even he was today.” The mercenary chortled in perverse amusement as the Elf’s proud defiance became tinged with trepidation.

_As much as I desire to, I will have to wait to kill the whelp. He is too valuable._ Ament wiped his dagger clean in the soft grass beside him. _If Ramlin knows the Elf’s identity, there will be no stopping him from killing it._ The mercenary watched as the beaten Elf finally slid into unconsciousness and was immensely satisfied with his expenditure of vengeful passion. Sheathing his blade, Ament stood from his seat on the Prince’s chest, confident the creature would not try to flee in his condition.

“Ament, egad, man. Good catch!” Jalian interrupted, breaking Ament’s thoughts as he, Doran, and Meika’s horses finally caught up to their leader. Ramlin and Strider were not far behind, panting as they raced to the scene.

“What happened?” Ament queried, moving treacherously closer to his wayward brother when Ramlin finally approached.

Although Ament’s voice was quiet, Ramlin responded immediately to the false tone, which he well knew meant the leader was incensed, and drew himself up to his full height. Strider divided his anxious gaze between the Elf and two brothers, upset, it seemed to Ament, that their captive had nearly escaped. The mercenary answered his brother's question innocently, “Strider tried to cut his hands free for the Elf to relieve himself. I told him you would disapprove. I stopped him. The Elf ran while I was talking to Strider.”

Ament stepped nearer to his brother, grinning murderously as he spoke, “Somehow, I doubt that is the whole story. I am sure Strider can tell us what happened. However, from the look of the Elf, his shirt torn off and his leggings barely around his hips, I can easily guess Strider's answer.” Ament paused, his ire tainting his scowl with a fierceness that did not often accompany his usual display of displeasure. “I will not let you ruin this for me, Ramlin. This is too big, it is too important. Do you not see this, idiot?”

“I see it,” Ramlin ground out in indignation, crossing his large arms over his broad chest, but pouting like a child, “I see that you would trust this stranger Strider over your own flesh and blood. I see that this Elf means more to you than your brother.”

“I trust Strider because he has yet to muddle my plans with buffoonery, unlike you, who have been the bane of my existence since your birth. Too many times in the past I have let you get away with your idiocy, but not this time, Ramlin. If you interfere again I will cleave your fool head from your shoulders, understood?”

“But...” his brother began.

In a flash of motion, Ament pulled his dagger again from its sheath, throwing the small blade expertly at his brother’s booted feet and nearly removing the man’s toes. “Enough! I wish to hear your excuses no more. Do you understand me, Ramlin?” Ament’s appearance was degenerately sinister. Ramlin nodded in obedience, his eyes shining with alarm. “Leave now, all of you. I will join you shortly.”

None dared to contradict their fuming leader, who retrieved his dagger silently after Ramlin had walked away. The Elf’s slack body was rebound and hefted onto Doran’s waiting lap. Ramlin mounted behind Jalian and Strider behind Meika, and the entourage galloped back to the campsite to collect the other horses, leaving their leader behind as he went for his own horse.

Ament’s mind raced with his newly acquired information. _This changes things. My idiot brother cannot be allowed near the Elf again, lest he find out its identity. I suppose I should be thankful the fool disobeyed; else, I might not know that the means to the goblet’s power is also the end to our quest for revenge._

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The young Ranger clung lightly to the older man riding in front of him, dumbfounded by the outcome of the quick events that had just taken place. He had fully expected Ramlin’s version of the story to be more accusatory, leading to a battle of words, or swords, which would end badly for all involved. _Ramlin had to have heard me speak to Tauron... and he knows the Elf tried to help me. How would I explain that?_ Strider’s aid to the Elf could be easily clarified, and truly, it seemed that Ament would be thankful to the healer for maintaining the Wood-Elf’s health. Elves often died from the trauma of torment and abuse, and despite that Tauron was a warrior, Aragorn believed that the Elf would likely have released his faer willingly from its earthly confines rather than to face a captivity that only promised more misery. _The stars shine on us this day, Tauron, brighter than Anor’s light. Despite my failings. Nevertheless, Ament did not find out the truth about what happened. That does not mean he will not, or that Ramlin will not seek his own revenge._

In his peripheral vision, the Ranger noticed Ramlin scowled unabashedly at him and the captive in turns, each visiting stare becoming more acidulous. Aragorn vacillated between his desire to behead the would-be rapist Ramlin, regardless of the consequences, or to conquer his animosity so that he and the Elf could escape. _The Elf is in no condition for flight, even more so now than before, and yet it is even more imperative that we flee._

_What have I done? I am no better than these thugs are. I have kept Tauron in this situation against his will by my complicity._ Estel had not forgotten the reason for his decision to retain the Elf but he was no longer certain that his preference for the greater common good was the moral act. _I held him here by my own desire to see the world rid of any threat to my family and friends. My own selfish reasons have taken precedence._ Unable to reconcile the discrepancy between his fear for Tauron’s safety and the nagging desire to thwart Ament’s plans, Aragorn decided he would have to explain everything to the Elf. _I’ve no doubt he will choose his own safety, especially with the threat of Ramlin’s continued violence._ The Ranger was certain that the mercenary would molest the Elf again, but he did not wish Tauron to be around to discover the authenticity of his belief.

Upon their arrival at the campsite, Aragorn and Ramlin moved noiselessly to their own mounts. No word was uttered amongst the group of mercenaries except Aragorn’s gentle commands to his steed. They took to the plain, heading for southernmost borders of Mirkwood. Moments later, Ament joined them, his scowl in place.

Aragorn glanced worriedly at the insentient Elf that lay across Doran’s lap, his healer side coming through as he thought, _He has not yet regained consciousness, and he bleeds too freely. I need to see to him before too long; else, he will lose too much blood. The wound from Ament’s dagger will no doubt become infected without proper treatment. Not all these bruises could have occurred during the time I was unconscious. Surely, Ament vented his own fury on the Elf._

The concept of escape again crossed Estel’s mind. _We’ve no hope now. If only I had planned for this last night or this morning, we well could have met a border patrol in Eryn Galen and left the difficulties up to someone else._

The heir to the throne of Gondor balked at his own appraisal of his and Tauron’s situation, for there was much to consider other than his and the Elf's lives. He was not sure of the Elf’s disposition, since he did not know him, but Tauron was obviously a warrior, and with that came the responsibility that Aragorn himself felt; that is, the responsibility to put the lives of others before one’s own. _I will need to talk to him tonight, if he lasts that long._

The first drops of the oncoming storm hit the riders. Aragorn merely turned his weary face to the sky, hoping to find some comfort in the familiarity of the black thunderheads that crackled overhead. The electrifying lightning had yet to come.

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When Tirn had reached the part of the river where he had reported Prince Legolas had departed from, the sentry sat on the sandy bank and wept piteously. The gray storm clouds that had been threatening the morning had erupted in a gush of cold droplets that left the fair Elf sodden with their offering to Arda. _If any signs were left, they have washed away now._

Tirn had never doubted King Thranduil’s love for the Prince; however, he had doubted that the King still held hope for his son’s return. Now, the sentry could see the true funereal circumstances into which he had entered: there was little that inspired hope along the swelling shores of the Anduin. Not much thought had been given afore nor during his journey to the river, but now that he was confronted with what to do next, a disconsolate Tirn flipped the medallion he usually wore about his neck to decide which way to turn.

Nothing had been discovered about the origins of the men who had abducted the Prince. The footsteps to the river were the only tracks that had been sought. A few more traps had been found, luckily without injury to anyone, but they could not discern from the traps any knowledge about their owners. Those tracks that had led to the site of the Elfnapping had washed away, forgotten in the bustle to find where the Prince had been taken, not from where the takers had come. Moreover, at least two days and several inches of rain had obscured even the furrow on the ground that Tirn had concluded implied the men had vanished via river.

_Which way to turn? They could have paddled north, or rode the current south. They could have beached on the eastern shore, or grounded on the western bank._ The sentry nearly mewled in frustration before he reined in his despairing thoughts. _Despair will not find the Prince. I made an oath to the King and to Legolas. I will find him or I will not return._

Tirn ceased flipping his medallion, instead looking at it intently. The trinket shone in the midafternoon, overcast sunlight, reflecting its meaning, if not its worth, with the golden hued shadow it cast upon the flaxen haired Elda’s face. The medallion was a gift from his father, a sentry himself before the War of Five Armies called him to service where he met his end. On the medal was naught but a carved leaf, a symbol to remind Tirn that his place was as the trusted guard of the Prince.

Sighing, the Elf flipped the coin once – leaf up south, leaf down north. It landed leaf up on his hand. _South, good. I don’t think they took him north._ Again, the trinket somersaulted through the air, and Tirn decided leaf up eastern, leaf down western shore. Again, the coin landed leaf side up. _Eastern. I doubt they took to the river only to stay close to Eryn Galen._ But he would follow the chance instruction of the coin, for he had nothing else to look to for guidance.

Picking himself from the now muddy bank with a leaden wretchedness, Tirn shook the rainwater from his hair and cloak and mounted his horse, steering the beast towards the southern Mirkwood borders.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Why will they not leave me alone?_ Legolas could not seem to open his eyes. Their lids lay heavy, his long dark eyelashes seemingly glued to his cheeks. _Did I not escape Ramlin?_ Urgency at the sensation of hands rubbing over his immobile body drove the Prince to immeasurable levels of apprehension; the nightmarish possibility that he had not evaded Ramlin, or that he was being molested again, inspired a primal instinct in Legolas to rise and tear the throat of whoever dared to touch him. He could not move his arms, his legs were tied, he believed, though his wounded leg may well have been on fire.

“Leave me be,” Legolas whispered, his voice a mere suggestion of the force with which he tried to bolster his command.

“Tauron, it is Strider. I am sorry, my friend, I am only trying to treat your injuries.”

Hearing the kind, worried voice of the human relieved the Elf’s worst fear, although any hope his muddled mind had that he had escaped the clutches of the band of humans deserted him. Weakened as he was, it took a great effort to open his eyes to see the human. The Elf’s spirits fell in acceptance, his countenance illustrating his resignation.

“Tauron? Do you understand me?”

The sand that seemed to coat his tongue and throat forfended his attempts to alleviate the man’s concern with a reply; instead, he only managed a gravelly moan that increased the healer’s fretting over him. If the Elf hadn’t been tied, he would have batted at the man’s hands in frustration. _Water._

“Do you need water?”

Regardless of his current condition and dismal circumstances, Legolas smiled, his face brightening in mirth at the perceptiveness of the human. _Perhaps he is just a good healer. Thank the Valar. I think I need a good healer._

Strider raised the flaxen head of his charge tenderly; Legolas drank from the proffered flask greedily, relishing in the simple pleasure of soothing his dried throat and mouth with the tepid water. “Hannon le.”

“You are welcome.” Strider carefully laid the Elf’s head on the ground. Legolas could feel his arms regaining circulation when Strider had lifted him, though they soon became numb again as the Elf waited for the healer to re-bandage the injury on his leg. “He ripped the wound open,” Strider answered, noticing the Elf’s questioning gaze.

“I felt as much.” Legolas could not suppress a wince when the human tied the bandage tightly around his calf.

The human winced in return. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t hurt me.” The Elf’s pride forced him to lie, when in fact his leg burned as though it were being roasted over the campfire.

“No, I am sorry,” the healer paused, worrying his lip as he considered his words carefully, “I am sorry that I was not more help earlier.” Strider glanced down, unwilling to meet the Elf’s eyes.

Legolas was speechless at the depths of guilt to which the man appeared to be subjecting himself. _I still do not know this human’s true intentions but if naught else, he is truly concerned with my well-being. He has to be, if he would let me go free to face Ramlin alone._

“It’s complicated right?” Legolas smiled weakly. The healer did not see him, and taking the reply as a reprimand, Strider grimaced, the guilt on his face growing. The Elf quickly assured him, “This is not your fault.” Legolas suddenly realized he didn’t know the extent to which the man was involved with Ament’s depraved tactics, and so did not continue comforting the healer.

The Elf’s sensitive ears detected the approach of Ament, a fact to which Legolas alerted the healer with a barely noticeable flick of his eyes.

“We will speak later, Tauron,” Strider promised in a tone more subdued than the quiet one with which they had both been using to converse. The Elf only blinked in response, switching his attention to the leader of the motley band of men who had abducted him.

“Strider, follow me.” Ament offered no room for argument, and the healer only rose from where he sat and trailed the mercenary across the campsite, albeit somewhat reservedly. Ament halted when they had reached the fringe of trees that surrounded the elliptical clearing in which they had chosen to stay the night. Pointedly directing his command at Ramlin, the leader demanded, “Do not touch the Elf.”

Legolas watched the two humans walk off into the surrounding forest. His forest. _Eryn Galen. Though the woods seem known to me, I am sure I have never been this far south._ The Wood-Elf studied the awning of trees and leaves above him, gauging by the tainted lifesong of the elms and maples how far south the humans had taken him. _We cannot be below Dol Guldur. I am closer to home than I could have hoped._ The thought of home, of his father, and of his life there reawakened the homesickness that had plagued him during his foiled undertaking for freedom. Legolas distracted himself with listening to the conversation around him, watching the spent thunderclouds obscure the moon, wishing he could hear of what Ament and Strider were talking.

The healer continued to befuddle the Elf. _I must trust him if I want to live to see another day. I have no choice._ However, the Elf’s faith in the healer lay not just in his lack of other options, but his realization that the man had risked his life to keep the Wood-Elf from harm. _I can only wonder what Strider has told the others about how he reacted to Ramlin’s actions._ Reminding himself of Ramlin stole Legolas’ temporary sense of calm, and as if he had known the Elf was thinking of him, the mercenary appeared beside the Prince, startling the fair Elda from his abstraction.

Ramlin towered over the Elf, his face a stony mask of suppressed desire and rage. He cocked an eyebrow, examining every inch of the Prince’s body leisurely. With the tatters of his tunic barely covering his chest and his leggings still not laced properly, Legolas had to defy his impulse to avoid the man’s eyes, choosing to return the lust filled leer with his own hostile glare.

“Just admiring my work, Elfling,” the mercenary said as he leant down, his greasy locks of reddish black hair hanging over his face. Ramlin’s work, with the help of Ament, consisted of the Elf’s entire stomach, torso, and back to be blackened with contusions, his fair features marred with a bruised eye, split lip, and bloodied nose, a seeping knife wound to his upper arm, and his egregiously tormented leg wound to exude rolling waves of nausea inducing pain, not to mention a variety of other injuries.

Unsheathing his boot dagger, the mercenary held the blade in the firelight, inspecting it. “It’s sharp, pretty one,” Ramlin commented conversationally, moving the dagger’s tip until it rested over the Elf’s abused lips. The brute grinned, running the flat of the blade languorously down Legolas’ lips, over his chin, and down his neck, stopping at the base of the Elf’s throat where his fast beating heart moved the flesh. Legolas dared not budge; he only glared contemptuously at the human. “I am sure Ament will not mind gifting me with you when he has from you what he needs.” The mercenary flipped the blade over, tracing down the Elf’s body, its polished edge slicing the topmost skin. A thin line of moonlit blood glistened in the wake of the dagger. When Ramlin had reached Legolas’ pelvis, he flipped the blade again, slipping the knife under the loose lacings of the Elf’s leggings.

“Ramlin! Leave the Elf be! Ament is in a foul mood this night.”

Doran’s call from beside the fire caused Ramlin to roll his eyes, removing his dagger carelessly from Legolas' breeches as he bent further down to whisper conspiratorially to the Elf, “We will finish what we started, pretty one. We will just have to bide our time.” To Doran, the mercenary called back, “Ament said not to touch him. I’ve not laid a hand on him!”

Ramlin guffawed in his pleasure of outsmarting his older brother: he stood, and with a final gaze at the Elf, returned to his companions, laughing and jesting with them about his new predilection for Elf flesh. Legolas only lay mutely on the wet, cold ground, disturbed by his yearning to have the healer return. _I am not so weak that I need him to watch over me._ The Elf sighed, anxious despite himself for Strider’s arrival. Fearing for the healer’s safety and his own, the Prince added, _Please return, Strider. Soon._

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The night sounds of Mirkwood’s forest became an eerie backdrop for the mercenary's reticence as he picked a path between the gnarled tree roots. _Valar, I don’t think that Ramlin and he have spoken, so I do not know if Ament now knows what occurred earlier, but if this is Ament’s idea of telling me I have become a liability, I could not think of a creepier atmosphere in which to do so._ By the fire, the eyes that stared everywhere from the boughs of the trees were bearable; here, in the darkness beyond the comforting light of the blaze, the yellow eyes deepened Aragorn’s unease.

Ament stopped, turning on heel to face the Ranger and without pretense asking, “What happened this afternoon?”

Aragorn had expected this line of questioning but had not yet thought of how to explain to the mercenary what had occurred. _I have lied thus far, I cannot see how anymore falsehood would hurt. I will only need to stretch the truth._

He told the mercenary, “Ramlin wanted me to leave him with the Elf. When I reasoned with him that we were hurried, he tried to take the Elf against his will anyway.”

“And you did not try to stop him?”

“Of course I did,” Strider replied indignantly, but when he realized he sounded too troubled by the captive’s plight, Estel continued in a rush, “but, Ramlin was not easily persuaded. His lust overcame his intelligence, and he throttled me unto unconsciousness. Ramlin almost had his way with the Elf, and if I hadn’t woken, he would have.”

“I see.” Ament stared, troubled, out into the woods. “We have a problem, have we not?”

Believing the query to be rhetorical, Aragorn did not answer, but offered, “Elves can die from the grief that such abuse causes. We need the Elf. I only sought to preserve him.”

“I did not know this.” Ament smiled sincerely, surprising the Ranger with the trust and friendship the smile displayed. “I do not doubt you, Strider. No, it is Ramlin who is the problem.” The mercenary ruminated briefly ere he proceeded in a serious tone. “My brother will not tolerate your interference with his possession of the Elf, and he will seek to have it any way he can. His lust does not drive him; it is his need for destruction. He has not had the chance to purge this perverse want for some time now, which is why I need your help, Strider.”

Aragorn did not hesitate to comply because he did not want the trust that Ament offered to be rescinded. “Of course, Ament. Anything that abets our mission I will gladly undertake.”

“Good, Strider. I knew you would prove your worth. The others have their uses but none would dare to stand up to Ramlin.” The mercenary laid his hand on the Ranger’s broad shoulder, his smile brilliant even in the somber forest. “If my brother so much as touches the Elf, kill him.”

_My good fortune, it seems, because if Ramlin had touched the Elf again I would have killed him in any case._

The Ranger frowned as Ament removed his hand from his shoulder, acting as though he were bothered though he was truly relieved that the most troublesome worry he had was now given a solution. “He is your brother, Ament. You would have me kill him?”

Sneering, the mercenary explained, “As I told him, this is too significant a chance to seek my own revenge, and I will not pass it up to cater to his disgusting lust for inflicting pain.” Ament glanced towards the campsite as if he were watching for eavesdroppers. “Jalian lost much to the Elves. He’s run into several in the slave trade, which, of course, left him with a useless eye and disfigured for the remainder of his pitiful life.”

Ament shrugged his shoulders, wrapped up in his own line of thought. “Doran, I do not think, has suffered at the hands of the Elves, but his hatred runs deep. His desire to rid Middle Earth of the foul animals runs deeper than even Jalian, I think. Meika, well, he doesn’t hate the Elves at all, he only wants the riches. And you, Strider, want your revenge, and perhaps the riches, too.” The mercenary grinned obligingly. “We all have our desires, friend, and we all struggle to obtain them, though what means we are willing to employ to obtain the ends we desire is a line each man draws for himself.” Ament leant forward, staring straight into the Ranger’s eyes. “Some may call that morality, the line one draws for himself, but I have drawn no line. Nothing will stop me, not even my brother.”

The Ranger longed to argue but could only nod his acquiescence; however, his curiosity got the best of him and he asked without thinking, “Why do you seek your revenge against the Elves?” Aragorn regretted his question instantly but the leader only grinned wider, scowling even so.

“King Thranduil killed my father.”

Aragorn was utterly thrown by the straightforward justification. Grinning intensely, Ament’s dark eyes glinted sanguinely in the pale moonlight, his face lit with a sinister glee that the Ranger was sure had loosened the mercenary’s usually tight lips. “King Thranduil?”

Ament ignored the Ranger’s echoing question, explicating moodily, “A party of Elves drove a band of Orcs out of the Mirkwood forest and into the fringes of Laketown, where my family lived. My father, Ramlin, and I were tending the fields when the Orcs overcame us. My father died fighting so that Ramlin and I could live. The Orcs tore his flesh with their claws while Ramlin and I watched from the trees. Not until they were finished did the Elves come out of the forest to slay the Orcs. My mother died soon after. Sorrow, I think. She just gave in to it.”

“How was Thranduil involved?”

The leader answered testily, “He would have ordered the Orcs driven from the forest. Why did they drive them into the area around Laketown? He offered no apology or recompense when his decision turned Ramlin and me into landless, penniless orphans. I’ve raised Ramlin these many years, stealing and conniving for us to survive, while Thranduil has suffered nothing for the pain he has caused.”

Reluctant to agree to Thranduil’s culpability, the Ranger only commented, “No one in Laketown would take you in?”

“You must not know much of Laketown, Strider. King Thranduil lords over the people there by withholding and giving his aid in times of need, by his strict stipulations on how and what we may use from the forest, and his tyranny over the wine trading of the merchants. He is a murderer and a thief. His greed threatens Laketown, as the Elves threaten all of humanity. No one would take us in because we were but farmer’s orphans, not benefactors from the rich trade of wine or goods to Thranduil.”

Aragorn still could not reconcile Ament’s logic. _He is mad, more so than Ramlin, though his wits make him all the more dangerous than Ramlin’s brawn. I may as well keep him talking, if he is willing to reveal so much._

“So you seek the goblet to gain his wealth?”

“And do you know how I will get my revenge?” Ament continued as though he had not heard Aragorn. He was not conscious of his audience, his tirade more to himself than to the Ranger. “I will kill his family, and I will live the rest of Thranduil’s long life to enjoy his suffering.” Suddenly remembering Aragorn’s presence, Ament confessed, “Luck is on my side, it seems, for Jalian and Meika managed to not catch just any Elf, but Prince Legolas Thranduilion, the King’s only son and family left in Middle Earth.” Sniggering heinously, the mercenary rubbed his chin in thoughtful deviance, looking much the ne’er-do-well that Aragorn had first thought him to be.

_Tauron is the crown Prince of Eryn Galen?_ Several choice Dwarven curses tried to escape the Ranger’s mouth, causing him to bite down on his lip violently to stifle them. _Sweet Eru._

Ament placed a hand on each of the Ranger’s shoulders, inciting Aragorn to face the mercenary frankly, schooling his emotions so the mercenary wouldn’t see his distress. “Strider, no one must know that the Elf is the King’s brat.” The leader craned his neck forward until his maniacal face was only inches from the perturbed Ranger’s visage. “Ramlin will tear the Elf apart if he finds out. He desires the same revenge that I do but his lack of brains grants him no faculties to plan a revenge that we will both savor for all eternity. I need the Elf, you as well, for we share in the same quest for our revenge." Tightening his hold on Aragorn's shoulders, the mercenary added, "And you and I are not so unalike, Strider. We both have no qualms about how we obtain our desires. We both draw no line.” Ament released the Ranger and then turned, heading back to the camp and leaving a guilt-ridden Ranger behind as he called over his shoulder, “Keep the Elf alive – whatever it takes.”

Estel’s first inclination was to oppose Ament’s conclusion about his character. _I am nothing like you; you are mad, you would use the innocent out of spite, a spite that is based on your mind’s insane machinations._ However, as he pursued the leader back to camp, Aragorn realized the hypocrisy of his thoughts. Sighing, he berated himself, _You have kept Tauron... nay, Legolas... here against his will for your own purposes._ He sighed again. _I have no time to dwell on these things._

The Ranger instead contemplated the parts of the unknown plot that Ament had given him, pushing his shame away so that he could find a way out of his and Legolas’ situation. _The goblet makes mortals immortal... Ament desires to make Thranduil suffer, so that he may enjoy his immortality with Thranduil’s pain. Surely, that is not all that Ament desires. He, too, must want the wealth hidden in Eryn Galen’s palace. There is just too much I do not know._ Aragorn wished that his Ada or even his brothers were here to help him suss out the dilemma. _If we ever get out of this, they may well kill me, as will Thranduil, for my part in Legolas’ captivity. I must talk with the Prince about this. How much of all this does he know?_

His musing was interrupted when he noted Ament had stopped several feet in front of him, the mercenary’s head cocked to the side. The hiss of a sword striking rock reached the men’s ears before a voice bellowed, “Grab the Elf!”

Glancing back at Strider agitatedly, Ament ran impetuously through the forest with the Ranger on his heels.

 


	10. Chapter 10

The Ranger and mercenary had not strayed far from their encampment; yet, the time it took Aragorn to reach the camp unnerved him so completely that when the two broke into the clearing, the panicked Ranger nearly threw himself into the back of a black bodied arachnid. He pulled his momentum at the last second, and then almost stumbled backwards in shock. Ament stood beside him, as surprised at the scene before them as Aragorn. _Spiders. Of course, we_ are _in Mirkwood,_ the Ranger quipped to himself drolly, his normal battle instincts suspended in awe of the daunting scuffle before him.

Ramlin, Meika, Jalian, and Doran had circled the immobile form of Legolas, fighting off five of the shaggy, long legged spiders that inhabited the Mirkwood forest. _They are found especially this far south. We have let down our guard._ The group of mercenaries was holding their own, though the Ranger was perturbed to observe that the spiders, which stood as high as the waists of the men, were vastly more attentive to the prone Elf than to the mercenaries, likely having been drawn by the Elf’s blood into attacking. Without another thought, Aragorn shot forward to join the fray. His movement broke Ament from his own trance, causing the leader to act, also.

The biggest of the foul creatures blasted its sticky web at Ament’s legs as he ran to his brother and companions’ aid, felling him before the man knew what had happened. Ament flipped to his back, sword pulled and outthrust, but did not respond rapidly enough, for the arachnid sank its poisoned fangs into the muscles of his leg ere he managed to pierce the creature’s abdomen in a fatal blow. Aragorn could do naught to help him; the other men’s distraction of their own battles had left the Elf open to a particularly wily spider’s attempts to gain a meal, and it demanded all of the Ranger’s skills to keep the beast at bay.

“Ament!” Ramlin thrashed ardently through the two arachnids that blocked his course to his brother, killing unwittingly the spider Aragorn was fighting.

Together Meika and Jalian defeated their dark foe by attacking it simultaneously, and then turned to Ament, who lay shaking violently on the forest floor. The Ranger maneuvered himself between the remaining spider and Legolas, intent on protecting the vulnerable Wood-Elf. He dispatched the foul being with a swift stab while Doran hefted the Prince to his feet. It seemed to the Ranger that the altercation was over as soon as it had started, though such battles often were. With the spiders dead, their black blood pooling, glittering in the pale moonlight about the once peaceful clearing, the mercenaries, Ranger, and Elf gathered about the quaking form of Ament.

Ramlin held his brother lightly in his mighty arms, his brow wrinkled in distress and uncertainty. The leader’s legs were covered in the white web that had been used to bring him down; a stain of ruby blood, tinged with the spider’s dark toxin, indicated where the fangs had penetrated the flesh. Ramlin looked up, addressing Strider, “What do we do for him?”

“I do not know. I have never treated spider venom before,” the Ranger replied truthfully. Ramlin glowered in skepticism but the healer grabbed his bag, settling himself beside the fallen leader. “I am not sure what will help him. I will try.”

Aragorn paused, waiting for a sign from the mercenary that he gave his leave to tend to Ament. Ramlin nodded, his suspicion suppressed by the dire circumstances, and laid down on the ground his now still and unconscious brother. The Ranger immediately began washing away the vile poison that coated Ament’s leg wounds, even going so far as to press the torn flesh together in an attempt to squeeze out any poison he could from the gouges themselves. That done, a frantic Strider searched through his bag for herbs that would be useful in fighting the toxins.

Ramlin complained, “You’ve not treated these wounds before, Strider, so what do you plan to do?” The mercenary did not linger for an answer but stalked across the clearing to where the other shaken mercenaries had sat the Elf down against a tree trunk and were passing a water skin between themselves. “I bet he knows,” Ramlin murmured dangerously to himself, heading for the Elf. Aragorn was absorbed in the task before him of mixing and applying his herbal mixture, having not even heard the mercenary, and was thus not privy to the unfolding events until he heard Ramlin shriek, “What do we use, Elf?!”

The unexpected scream resounded throughout Eryn Galen, its echo bouncing off the silent forest. Aragorn dropped the clean linen he was wrapping tightly about Ament’s leg, spooked by the broken quiet. Ramlin had lifted Legolas up against the tree’s trunk: the Elf dangled by his neck from the irate mercenary’s meaty fists. _Damn it._

Aragorn made to stand, but Meika saved Aragorn the trouble of having to slit Ramlin’s throat by reasoning soothingly to the mercenary, “He can’t answer, Ramlin. Let him down.”

The Elf gasped for air when he was released, giving Ramlin a heated glare that could have scorched stone. Strider returned to tying the linen, hurrying to finish so that the injured man would not bleed too much if the healer had to intervene in the situation across the clearing. He listened, the healing side of himself hoping Legolas could advise him how to help Ament. The Ranger had not lied to the Elf in the cave the morning before; he could not watch another suffer, even if it was an Elf, or a mercenary, as was the case.

“I know little of healing humans. Elves are merely rendered unconscious by the venom,” Legolas responded roughly, barely able to catch his breath.

“You lie. Tell me what to give Ament,” Ramlin spat, drawing his fist back to beat the information out of the Elf.

“Ramlin.” The mercenary turned, his ire forgotten at the sound of his brother’s feeble voice. Aragorn looked down, not having been aware that his charge was awake. Ament’s body twitched convulsively, his face was white and drawn in pain, but his usual scowl remained, as did the intelligent, mad glint in his half-lidded eyes. “I appreciate your concern,” Ament inhaled deeply, calling forth the strength to continue lividly, “but do not touch the Elf.”

_He has apparently just awoken, else poisoned or not, Ament would have already found his feet to spill Ramlin’s blood for choking the Prince,_ Aragorn decided.

The mercenary ignored his brother’s anger and dashed across the campsite to stoop down beside Ament. “Course not, brother. You had me worried.” Ramlin smiled affectionately at his older brother, ruffling the leader's crimson, corkscrew hair in an awkward display of devotion. Ament’s scowl deepened. The other mercenaries followed, leaving Legolas to lean against the tree trunk, striving to return his breathing to normal.

As he watched Ramlin worry over his brother, the Ranger was troubled over Ament’s order to kill Ramlin should he touch the Elf. _It seems the bully loves his brother after all, and yet, Ament would kill Ramlin for his revenge._

Shaking his head, Aragorn delivered his water bladder into Ament’s unsteady hand. “Drink all of this. You will need to flush the poison out of your system. I am not sure how well the herbs I have given you will work.” The mercenary took the bladder, spilling drops of its contents across his chest when he tried to imbibe the liquid on his own. Ramlin reached down, steadying his brother’s hand so that the leader could sate his thirst.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” the healer promised.

Leaving the mercenaries gathered about their fallen but recuperating comrade, Strider made his way to the Elf, whose lips were no longer tinged blue from lack of air. The Ranger noticed that Legolas was leaning most of his weight on the tree behind him in an effort to remain upright.

“Let me help you sit,” Aragorn offered softly. The Elf did not reply but allowed the Ranger to lower him to the forest floor, a feat he would have found unattainable with hands and legs both tied and injured. With the immortal comfortable on the ground, the healer quickly assessed the Elf’s throat, making sure that no permanent damage had been done and that Legolas could breathe properly again. In his ministrations on the archer’s neck, his hand came back bloody, prompting him to ask, “Where are you injured, Legolas?”

Sharply, the Elf glared at the Ranger, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, “He told you who I am.”

Strider was taken aback at first, not mindful of having used the Elf’s real name. “Ament you mean?” he asked. Legolas nodded. “Yes. He told me much. We will have to talk about it later. Where did this blood come from?"

Accepting the change in subject for now, the Prince rolled his eyes, “Ramlin believes Ament’s order not to touch me doesn’t extend to knives.”

Aragorn pushed aside the tattered remnants of the Elf’s shirt, exposing a shallow cut that ran down the pearly skin from neck to navel. Closing his eyes in frustration, the Ranger pledged in a whisper, “We will leave tonight. We can find a border patrol and alert them of Ament’s plans.”

“And you know what Ament’s plans are?”

Knowing he could not evade telling Legolas, the healer confessed, “He seeks revenge on King Thranduil. His plan included your eventual torture and death.”

The Elf did not appear surprised. _Together we may hold enough pieces of this puzzle to solve it, if only we had the chance to confer._

“I thought as much. And what of the goblet?”

“He wishes to live long enough to see your father’s grief claim him. I believe he also plans to raid the vaults of Eryn Galen, plundering your father’s riches for nothing more than his own greed. How he plans to do this I do not know, only that you may be ransomed and then killed.” Aragorn watched the Elf mull over the deranged mercenary’s plot, knowing he had already spent too much time tending the Elf and was likely raising the suspicion of Ramlin, if not also the others. “I can explain all this when we are safely away...” he started to promise before Legolas interrupted.

“There will be no scouts this close to Dol Guldur, even as north of it as we are. My safety means little if Eryn Galen is endangered,” the Prince whispered sagely, as though he spoke to himself. His bright blue eyes turned to the Ranger, “Go back to them.”

Pulling himself up in exhausted turmoil, Aragorn obeyed, trudging back to the circle of mercenaries, who did not appear to recognize his long absence. Ament rested fitfully; however, his color had returned and the healer was pleased to see the mercenary's body no longer trembled. Ramlin questioned, “He is alright?”

Aragorn dropped tiredly to his knees, reaching out to check the man’s heartbeat, and finding it slightly too fast but otherwise sound, he answered, “He should be. We should let him rest. I will apply more herbs to his wound later in the night.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” Meika anxiously looked at the healer, ostensibly wanting to help.

_He is probably more afraid that if Ament dies, Ramlin will be in charge._ The Ranger almost shuddered at the thought. _I believe I am more afraid of that possibility, as well._

“I will watch over him.” Aragorn stifled both a yawn and a groan, not looking forward to staying awake another night. “Get some rest.”

“I suggest at least one other remain alert as a sentinel in case of attack. I’ll take first watch,” Doran offered, the suggestion a good one, and thus not easily deflected though the Ranger wished he could find a reason for doing so.

Aragorn hid his frown. _Doran will make it difficult to escape._

The Elf, he saw, had heard the archer's suggestion: Legolas tilted his head questioningly, and then shook his head while mouthing, “Wait.”

Puzzled, the Ranger settled on the ground, sitting cross-legged facing the camp. He observed Doran pick up his sword and then check on the frightened horses as he moved closer to the Elf, across the way from Aragorn. Meanwhile, Meika and Jalian dragged their bedrolls closer to the fire, though Ramlin placed his bedroll carefully over his brother and lay on the bare ground nearby. _This will be a rough night._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tirn’s horse was fast tiring from the relentless pace the sentry had set. _Just a while longer and we will reach the Anduin’s crossing on the Old Forest Road. We will break then._ He gave his horse a gentle pat of encouragement. The night was nearly over but his quick eyes flashed about his surroundings, unsure what he was looking for yet taking in every detail of the shore of the rolling river. He had spent the entire day in the same pursuit until he had a persistent headache that throbbed each time his eyes flicked from object to object. _Not much longer, just hold on,_ the immortal assured, though whether the declaration was for his horse or himself he did not have the time to ponder.

Abruptly, the sentry halted, his sore but keen eyes picking out two figures galloping towards the crossing where the Old Forest Road met the river, just where he had intended to stop not more than a league away. _Elves. Noldor by the looks of their dress._ Eryn Galen had historically been at odds with the Elves of Imladris but diplomatic relations had been restored. _Perhaps they have word of the Prince._ Apologetically, Tirn spurred his horse on; the tired beast complied without complaint, sensing its rider’s excitement. _Why would they be traveling in the stormy night if not for important business?_

Despite his enthusiasm to confer with the Noldor, the sentry released his bow from its catch warily, holding it lightly against his side under his arm, ready should the two Elves prove to be less than friendly. When he approached the river crossing, he slowed his horse to a trot, not wanting to alarm the travelers, who had stopped, their own bows removed and ready. Upon closer inspection, Tirn marveled to see that the Noldor were mirror images of each other.

_Twins?_

“Mae govannen, friends from Imladris,” he called when he reached the Elves. “I am Tirn, a sentry of King Thranduil’s court. Do you travel to Eryn Galen on official business?”

The twins glanced at each other cagily before one of them replied, “Mae govannen, Tirn. I am Elladan Elrondion, and this is my brother Elrohir.”

_Elrondion? These are the twin sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris. Sweet Eru, I hope I have not offended them._

Again, the Elves shared a look with a meaning Tirn could not discern, before Elladan continued, “We are not on official business but we journey to King Thranduil’s palace.”

Tirn had slipped from his horse, holding his hand to his heart, and then sweeping it forward while bowing slightly out of respect. His face fell, though, at their words and he sighed heavily. “I am sorry to delay you, my Lords.” The sentry fought an overwhelming despair.

_It was too good to be true. They’ve no word of the Prince._

He advised them, “Please heed my warning, my Lords, and do not travel in the forest at night. I would accompany you to the palace if I could but I am moving south to...” The fair immortal hesitated, tentative to reveal the purpose of his mission to the Noldor. “To find the missing Prince,” he finished quietly.

Identical expressions of disbelief crossed the dark haired Elves' faces. “Prince Legolas is missing? From where? When? How long ago was he taken? Was there a human with him?” The barrage of questions from the Elf that Tirn believed was Elrohir confounded the sentry. Dismounting his steed, the Noldo raced to the Silvan, his twin right behind him. “Why do you search for him south? Are there others looking, also?”

“Brother, leave him be.” Elladan rolled his eyes, directing his consideration to Tirn. “Elrohir believes our brother and Prince Legolas to be together. We had hoped to find them safe in Eryn Galen.”

Tirn was no more enlightened with this explanation. “I don’t understand, my Lords.” The twins exchanged another fleeting look.

_They know more than they have told._

“Prince Legolas was abducted by two humans in the forest northeast of here three days ago, we believe. I am the only one looking for the Prince.” He kept his reasoning for heading south to himself.

_No point in telling them I placed the fate of the Prince on the flip of a coin._

“The only one? King Thranduil has not deployed warriors to find him?” Elrohir’s comment irked Tirn, though he had earlier questioned the King’s actions himself.

“The army of Eryn Galen is spread thin enough as it is to keep our borders safe. Besides, they took to the river, my Lords, and King Thranduil holds little hope that sending warriors to search the shores, especially after the recent rainstorms have washed away the tracks, will produce any clues as to the whereabouts of the Prince.” Rubbing his eyes, the sentry carried on in a soft mutter, “King Thranduil has lost much in the last millennia. He despairs.”

_Hold your tongue, Elfling. Do not bare the weaknesses of your home to these strangers,_ Tirn censured himself.

However, Elladan and Elrohir nodded their acceptance of this situation, apparently knowing the pressures the King must be under to protect his people from the Dark forces that plagued Mirkwood. Elrohir spoke, “Legolas is well but in danger. Our human brother is with him, this I know, but I do not know where they are.”

“Your human brother?” _When did Lord Elrond bond to a mortal?_

“Our adopted human brother, yes. Elrohir has had a vision of Legolas and Estel together,” Elladan explained patiently.

Tirn closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. _If the son of the seer Elrond and Celebrian, daughter of the prophetic Lady of the Woods, has had a vision, it must be trustworthy,_ Tirn concluded. Even so, he doubted. _They are Noldor. They may have ulterior motives. I have heard nothing of Elrond’s human son. Nevertheless, why would they come here otherwise if they have no official business?_

“Tirn?”

Realizing his eyes were still closed and his taciturn contemplation had discomforted the travelers, the sentry apologized, “Forgive me, my Lords. It has been a long day.”

“Why do you head south?”

Seeing he wouldn’t be able to avoid the question, the sentry’s mouth quirked into a bashful grin as he blushed. “I flipped a coin.”

Elladan raised one thin eyebrow, smiling himself. “You flipped a coin?”

Tirn shrugged his shoulders, regretting it instantly when he realized he was acting too informally in front of the Imladrian Lords. Seriously, he replied, “It seemed fate may lead me where reason could not.”

Catching his brother’s attention with a flip of his hand, Elrohir merely stared at his twin, another silent exchange that Tirn found entirely disconcerting. _Can they not just speak?_

Elladan turned back to the sentry, demanding simply, “We are coming with you.”

“Though I would appreciate the company, my Lords, I cannot guarantee your safety. Perhaps you should travel on to Eryn Galen and...”

“No. Our brother and your Prince are together. I think you are right, they have headed south.” Elrohir’s forehead wrinkled in concentration before he commanded as his brother had, “We will join you. If you refuse we will go without you, and you can explain to King Thranduil how Elrond’s sons were eaten by spiders in his realm.”

The dark haired Noldo smiled as he spoke but Tirn could well read between the lines. _Great, I am on an impossible mission and babysitting the twin sons of my King’s least favorite Elf._

Tirn exhaled slowly, repressing the urge to sigh outright. “Very well, my Lords. I had intended to camp the night just beyond this pass.”

Grinning in their easy defeat of the Silvan sentry, the twins only nodded, mounted, and followed the fair Elf further south down the Anduin.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I have been around these humans for too long,_ Legolas decided. _I am just as daft as they are now._ He could not sleep; Strider’s words bounced inside the immortal’s mind, taunting him with the possibilities of escape. _The healer is right. It is complicated._ The Elf glanced over at his benefactor, vexed by the human’s sunken, dark eyes and obvious fatigue. _He looks as though he has not slept for days._ Legolas was not aware of the veracity of this supposition, for in fact, the healer had not had any gainful rest since he awoke the morning of the day he entered Fulton, now three nights ago.

If Doran had not been awake, the Prince would have insisted Strider and he converse. The healer avoided the Elf’s gaze. _He does not want to provoke their mistrust. Somehow, he has kept them all disillusioned by this farce._ Legolas ignored the nagging thought that the human’s ability to lie to his fellow humans could well be used on him, too. _I have to trust Strider. I cannot stay here without trusting him._

The Elf rolled his head about his neck, trying to relieve the ache in his upper back and shoulders from having his hands tied behind him for days. He had not been able to break the ropes but he had managed to loosen them enough so that the circulation had returned to his tortured hands. If he worked the ropes any longer, Legolas knew he could probably free himself; however, freedom was no longer his aim. _Yes, I am certainly daft, and it is complicated,_ he thought, returning to his previous line of thought. _If I were to flee, Ament and his mercenaries would find another Elf, and he would suffer. I will not leave these men to obtain the goblet. Such an artifact could be used against Eryn Galen or another realm. It must be destroyed. I will not allow this to happen._

Legolas smiled brilliantly, momentarily forgetting his captivity, the men around him, and the fear for his future that snaked through his veins. He had some freedom even tied, he realized, as he chose to stay with the mercenaries. The immortal did not feel apprehension for his death, nor the threat of pain, but only for the future of his home. _Whatever happens, I will not abandon my responsibility to protect my people._ Pushing his trepidation over Ramlin’s threats and Strider’s enigmatic presence from his mind, the Prince of Eryn Galen laughed lightly, staring up at the beautiful stars.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

The _Elf has lost his mind._ Aragorn stared intently at the bound captive across the clearing who was laughing nonchalantly, smiling mirthfully, and acting as if he had no care in the world. _What does he find so amusing about this situation, and why did he tell me to wait?_ His curiosity piqued, the Ranger stood, his bones popping in discomfort, his exhausted muscles stretching painfully in protest. Careful not to wake the sleeping and injured leader that lay close to him or the snoring brother right by, Aragorn crossed the clearing with his healing bag in hand. Doran’s eyes tracked his progress as the Ranger walked towards him. _Perhaps now is a good time for the Prince and me to talk._

Doran whispered questioningly, his bearded face fashioned into a worried frown, “What is it, Strider? Is Ament well?”

“Ament is fine,” the healer responded in like tone, not wishing to rouse the camp. “I am checking on the Elf. Ament does not need to see the new marks Ramlin has left.”

The mercenary shook his dirty blond locks, grinned impishly, and replied, “Hands off, now. If we don’t get to have fun with him, then neither do you.” Though the man was only jesting, Aragorn’s stomach heaved at the thought of what Doran was implying. “But you are right, Ament would be better off not seeing Ramlin’s new handiwork,” he added seriously, anxious for his friend not to suffer Ament’s wrath.

“Will you watch over Ament while I see to the Elf?” The Ranger turned, glancing at the resting mercenary. “He is only sleeping but I would rather someone stay awake beside him in case something changes.”

_My talent at lying grows every day._

His roguish smirk again decorating his weathered face, Doran rose, nodding his acquiescence. Aragorn waited until the man had situated himself vigilantly beside his leader and friend before he walked to the Elf, who appeared to be oblivious to his presence, though the Ranger knew better.

“Legolas,” Strider prompted, gaining a baleful look from the Wood-Elf. _What have I done now?_ “What is it?”

“Do not call me by that name,” the Elf scolded, his lips barely moving with his hushed words. “Only you and Ament know.”

Exasperated, the Ranger countered, “It does not matter. We will leave tonight. Doran will...”

“I am not leaving,” Legolas deadpanned, cutting short the Ranger’s reply, his intense gaze boring into the human’s confused one. “I am staying. You may leave if you want.”

Aragorn sat with his mouth agape at the Prince. “You _have_ lost your mind,” the Ranger heard himself mutter, his gaze shooting up from his satchel of healing supplies so that he could catch the Elf’s enraged expression when Aragorn realized his faux pas.

However, the Elf quirked an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turned up into a ghost of a smile. “That’s what I thought,” Legolas quipped, his voice lilting with merriment. “I concluded I had been around you humans for far too long.”

The Ranger could not help but to return the smile, his own weary face lighting up with genuine cheerfulness to see the Silvan in high spirits. Reality intruded, though, when a thunderous snore from Ramlin broke the Ranger and Elf’s enjoyment of the moment. _Valar, I need sleep; I’m giddy._

“You cannot stay here, Le...” Aragorn caught himself, “Tauron.” The Elf grinned.

_He is mad, and I am mad, and Ament is mad, and Ramlin is mad, and..._

Legolas broke the man’s thoughts, “I will stay here because it is my duty to my people – to all the Elves. I do not know what your intentions have been, but if you truly wish to help me, you will help me stop Ament from seeking his revenge against my father.”

Remembering that Doran believed him to be tending the Elf’s wounds, Aragorn sought a flask of water from his knapsack. _Now that I wish to leave, the Elf wishes to stay. Of course._ He removed the container’s lid, his slow movements matching the slowed machinations of his mind. Holding the flask to Legolas’ lips and tilting it back for the Elf to drink, Aragorn pondered on the consequences of keeping the Prince here. He had intended to keep the Elf captive until he found out the whereabouts of the goblet; now that the Elf wanted to stay, the Ranger could complete this objective. _At what cost to Legolas? He chooses to stay for the same aims as I but the cost for him is much higher._ It was then that Estel understood that the Elf must trust him. _He thinks I can protect him._

Slipping a wafer of lembas from its leaf wrapping, the Ranger crumbled the bread into several small pieces, hiding the bread itself from Doran so that his possession of Elven waybread would not be seen, and ignorant of the increasing agitation of his charge at this lack of response. He fed the Elf the fragments, not meeting Legolas’ gaze yet. _I had never considered he would want to help me, especially after all I have let happen._ He finished giving the Elf lembas, and again took up the flask to let the Prince slake his thirst. Taciturnly, Aragorn replaced the items he had taken out, searching now for clean linen to place on the Elf’s leg wound.

“Strider.”

Sighing, the Ranger pulled out the roll of bandages from his sack and scooted away from the Elf so he could reach the Prince’s injured leg. “I cannot protect you.”

The Elf bristled, growling softly with wounded pride, “I do not need your protection, human.”

“I think you do, as you are now, bound and at the mercy of men who would see you suffer ere they finally killed you. And what of Ramlin? Do you think he will give in so easily to his brother’s orders? If he finds out who you are then nothing will stop him.” Aragorn was pleased to see that the Elf’s wound was healing again with no signs of infection. He was less pleased, however, with the tirade Legolas hissed next.

“You detained me before when it suited your purpose. What purpose do you have now for wanting to free me? Is it because of who I am? I know what Ramlin would do if he knew my identity but I am willing to risk that outcome for the chance to keep my people and father safe. What is your own goal in this, Strider?”

Aragorn finished tying the linen, and then rubbed his eyes roughly with the heels of his palms. “I know that I kept you here against your will before but this has gone too far. We need to leave. I can continue this deception no longer.” Moving closer to the Elf, the healer prodded the skin around the archer’s throat gently, ascertaining that the injury was no worse. “I had hoped to discover where Ament was headed, free you, and then try to find the goblet myself. I didn’t think it would take this long and I didn’t know they were kidnapping an Elf when I stepped into this mess, believe me.”

A short silence ensued before the Elf queried, “Why did you step into this mess, Strider?” Legolas’ anger was replaced with his usual stoicism.

The Ranger tried to find another task to occupy him so that Doran would not become suspicious as to why he was still treating the Elf. Picking up his bag, he leisurely sifted through it, not looking for anything in particular. “I was in Fulton, I overheard them talking about the goblet and how they would use it to destroy the Elves. Though I could not remember the details, Ada had once told me of it. I decided to follow the men but instead had to join them so that Ramlin wouldn’t slit my throat. Meika and Jalian showed up with you, and I thought I could keep you safe long enough to find out where the goblet was hidden.”

Legolas seemed satisfied with the oversimplified explanation, though he questioned, “Your _Ada_ told you this?”

_He may as well know. Mayhap I can gain more of his trust._

“My Ada, yes; Lord Elrond of Imladris. He took me into his house as his son.” At first, the Wood-Elf only stared expressionlessly at Aragorn. He then began to snicker quietly. “It is true,” Strider grumbled, believing the Elf thought him a liar.

The voice of reason in the back of his mind countered, _Why would he not think I am a liar?_

Trying to cease his snide laughter, Legolas protested, “No, Strider, I do not doubt you. It would explain much about you to know that you are the adopted son of Elrond. Your abilities as a healer, the lembas, the Sindar, and, I take it, your concern for the well-being of the Elves stems from this upraising. I will believe you.” The Silvan snickered again. “It is just that I know your brothers. You must be stout at heart indeed.” At this, the Elf laughed outright, his merry voice resounding throughout the glade, breaking the silence of the dark forest for a few short moments with welcome, if ill-timed mirth.

“Strider? What is wrong with the Elf?” Upon hearing the Elf’s cachinnation, Doran had left his place beside the wounded leader, his own curiosity piqued at the odd behavior from the normally aloof Elf.

Aragorn turned, his mind reeling with fatigue and the Elf’s laughter. “It is nothing, Doran. I believe he has lost his mind.”

_At least I didn’t have to lie._ Returning his attention to the Elf, he noted that Legolas was trying hard to stifle more snickers from leaving his lips. The Ranger glared at the Elf in warning, although Legolas’ merriment was contagious and Estel's glare faded into mild amusement.

“What should we do for him?”

“Nothing can be done for him, I’m afraid,” Strider replied to Doran, still staring at the immortal, who was losing his battle not to laugh after the Ranger’s last statement. Pointedly, Aragorn raised his brows, mouthing, ‘We will talk in the morning.’ To Doran he said, “Let’s leave him be. Mayhap some rest will restore his senses.”

Doran nodded, glancing fretfully at the Elf before following Strider to the middle of the camp, where the Ranger was tossing the used linen into the fire. “You look like you could use some rest yourself, Strider. If Ament is fine, why do you not sleep? I will wake you should he fall ill or awaken. I will wake Meika shortly, and I will give him the same instruction.”

Gratefully, the Ranger accepted the invitation with a smile, “I think I could sleep, thank you.”

Gathering his bedroll, Aragorn moved it close to Meika and Jalian, giving the still smiling Elf one last bewildered and bemused glare before he lay down on his side. _He will stay whether I do or not, and I will not leave him here. Our aims are the same, it seems. He is the Prince. I should not have doubted his dedication to his people._ Flipping over onto his other side, he peered into the licking flames of the small fire, looking for answers. _Yet I cannot protect him, even though he seems to believe he does not need me to do so._ Aragorn pondered Ament’s orders to kill Ramlin should he touch their captive again. _In that regard, I suppose I could keep Legolas from harm._ He was unsure how a man could be so cruel to his brother, for though he did not have siblings of his own, he loved his Elven brothers as such, and would gladly kill any who hurt them.

Unable to evade his turbulent thoughts, the Ranger turned onto his back, staring at the small expanse of stars that were visible through the canopy of trees. _How does that infernal Elf know my brothers?_ When sleep finally claimed him, Aragorn was sure that should he and the Elf escape this mire of dishonesty, he would learn what his brothers had done to elicit such a mirthful response from Legolas.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elladan yawned as he stood, watching his twin put away his belongings and Tirn tend nervously to their horses. They had only stopped for a few hours, and as the sun threatened to rise, they prepared to leave. Not wanting to complain since he was now certain that Elrohir was not dragging him across Middle Earth for no good reason, Elladan bit back the urge to criticize his brother’s tarrying. _Come on, come on, Elrohir._ As if his brother had heard him, Elrohir glanced sharply at Elladan. _Oh Valar, can he read minds, too?_

“I am in as much of a hurry as you, muindor,” Elrohir stated, before turning back to his packing.

The elder brother jumped, _Valar, he_ can _read minds!_

“No, Elrohir, I cannot read your mind, it is your vinegary expression that gave you away.”

Elladan eyed his brother suspiciously. The two had never needed to speak in order to communicate, a boon to them, a bane to all else who were left in the lurch as to how or about what they were talking; however, after his twin's visions, Elladan was no longer sure how much more his brother understood him than he understood Elrohir. Tirn, Elladan noticed, had added mystification to the numerous other emotions that flitted across his worried face with each passing moment.

_Poor Elf. Mayhap we could have been more polite last night in asking for his help._ The elder Noldo corrected himself, _Nay, we_ demanded _his help. He is worried enough as it is without us having to add to his burden._

When the silence grew long, the sentry asked, “We continue south, then?” Tirn had spoken little since their first conversation, preferring instead to stay as far away as possible from the constantly bickering twins, it seemed.

“That’s what the coin told us to do, did it not?” Elladan realized the error of his jest when Tirn only nodded, his fair face alight with crimson humiliation. “I am sorry, Tirn. I was only teasing.” Elrohir shot his brother a withering look, which Elladan returned wholeheartedly, saying in an attempt to change the subject, “’Tirn’, does that not mean ‘watcher'?”

“It does. My family has been sentries for Mirkwood royalty since my father’s father settled there.” The fair immortal relaxed, appreciative of the switch in topic. “It is my duty to watch over the Prince’s quarters, and I watched over the Prince himself when he was younger.”

“Do you know Prince Legolas well?” Elrohir had finished his packing, and now joined the conversation and the other two Elves where they stood.

“I have known him since he was but a child. He is well loved in Eryn Galen.” Staring towards the river with a faraway expression, the Wood-Elf continued, “I will not return without him.” Elladan and Elrohir beamed at Tirn and then each other, their esteem for the sentry rising: Tirn remained oblivious to their attention, his mind elsewhere.

“Then it is settled. We will not return without our brother, either. And if your Prince and our brother are together, then we may well spend our immortality together looking for them,” Elrohir declared with a grin.

Elladan noticed Tirn’s face pale at Elrohir’s words. _Obviously, that idea doesn’t excite him._

“Come, let us travel. The sun will rise in a couple of hours.” The three Elves mounted their horses, eager to be off down the Anduin’s banks.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had risen high in the sky when Legolas awoke from his peaceful reverie, though little of the welcoming light made its way through the leafy boughs of the trees above him. _Why have we not left yet?_ Extending his arms and legs as far as he could in their binds, the Elf stretched his tight muscles, careful not to pull on his aching ribs or leg too much. The band of mercenaries, sans the still sleeping Ament, sat around the embers of the fire eating bread and passing skins of water. Noticing the absence of his benefactor, Legolas worried, _Where is Strider? Certainly, he would not leave me._

Much of the doubt he had of the healer’s character had left him when the human had told him that his family included Lord Elrond. Legolas had heard rumors years ago that Elrond had taken in a human child, though he had given it little thought and knew nothing of the circumstances surrounding the Elven Lord's decision. His first and only encounter with the Elves from Imladris, save the messengers that carried missives back and forth between the two realms, had taught him that the grudges King Thranduil once held against the Noldor were misplaced, for truly Lord Elrond and his sons were pure of heart. He had no reservations that the Lord of Imladris had bestowed the same qualities upon his foster son, even if the human lacked the same time-borne wisdom as his Ada. _Wisdom will come to him, and the human is a child, yet. But then, he_ did _grow up with Elrohir and Elladan, so he may be forever cursed with immaturity._

With his keen hearing, the Elf picked up the sounds of soft footsteps approaching. _He even walks more like an Elf than a man does. I should have noticed these things before._ Strider broke through the trees next to Ament, instantly bending down over the human to check the heartbeat at his throat.

“Strider, how does he fare?” Ramlin passed the flask he held to Jalian, standing to join Strider by his ailing brother.

“He is doing well. I do not think we should move him this day. He needs more rest.”

Ramlin moped, “Ament will not be happy to be delayed.”

“Can you lead us onwards, then? I thought only Ament knew where we were going.”

Legolas caught the hopeful gleam in the healer’s eyes, and then watched it die when Ramlin shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Nay, the farmer told us, but I do not remember what he said. Only Ament knows. He did not write it down or mark it on his map, either, so that none else could find it.”

“Then we will wait for him to awaken.” Strider bandaged the leader’s wound with fresh cloth, again adding an herbal compound to the punctures to counteract any poison remaining.

Holding his brother’s curly head in his lap, Ramlin regarded the healer closely, as though he did not trust Strider not to poison his brother further. An uncomfortable fullness in his lower navel nagged at Legolas to relieve himself. Remembering the last time he had asked the mercenaries to give him leave to answer nature’s call, the Elf tried to disregard his need, but ignoring it only seemed to make its presence more persistent. _Valar. I will not suffer to be handled by Ramlin again._

Legolas kept his gaze on Strider, hoping to catch the man’s eye. Jalian and Meika tended to the horses, Doran tended the fire, and Strider and Ramlin tended to the sleeping Ament. Legolas tended his thoughts, unable to settle his mind about his decision to stay. He did not waver in his choice to remain among the mercenaries as their captive until the whereabouts of the goblet or the goblet itself was obtained; nonetheless, the crown Prince of Eryn Galen was tormented by the consequences of his prolonged physical and mental abuse. Elves were not creatures that could long stand containment of any sort, and the beatings that both Ament and Ramlin had imparted on him and the effects of his imprisonment were beginning to wear down his natural vigor.

_Mayhap the human is right, and I am going mad,_ Legolas chided himself.

Aside from his newfound trust in the healer, Legolas remained hesitant to place his safety entirely in the man’s hands. Strider would help him, or else he would prevent Ament from realizing his plans without the healer. Of one thing, he was sure; Strider himself meant the Prince no harm, and even that much was enough for the Elf to consider the healer an ally.

The Elf waited with the patience of the immortal, and the late morning slipped into late afternoon ere Ament finally awoke.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If they do not shut up, Lords or not, I will toss them both in the Anduin._ Tirn tried not to glare at the squabbling siblings, a feat that took whatever energy he was not expending in taking note of every detail of the shores along which they traveled. A large copse of birch trees that extended towards the distant Mirkwood border, but stopped short of joining the forest, was directly ahead. The eastern shore of the Anduin along this stretch was flat and grassy save for the grove before them. _We should check the birches. The humans and the Prince may have passed them on their way down the river._

“Elrohir, that is a lie. Estel fell from the balcony because you could not hold onto the rope properly.”

“It is not my fault that he weighs so much! Besides, I only let go because you told me that he had already reached the walkway beneath.”

“My Lords,” Tirn tried intervene, “We...”

“I did not tell you that.” Elladan twisted in his saddle to face his twin, fixing him with a scornful look.

“My Lords,” Tirn began again, “I think...”

“You did, you liar!”

“Elladan! I do not lie!”

Tirn could not take it anymore, and infuriated, could not suppress his ire any longer. “My Lords!” Both twins started, surprised by Tirn’s forceful shout.

“What is it, Tirn? There is no reason to be loud,” Elladan complained, turning to sit in his saddle aright again to face the sentry.

“I think I’m deaf in this ear, now,” Elrohir nagged, holding his ear in mock pain.

The sentry could feel his own ears burning as he blushed fervently. _If I have to listen to this any longer, I will toss_ myself _into the Anduin._ Without reply, Tirn kicked his horse into a gallop, heading for the birches. _No chance I will lose them, I am confident._ It was only seconds before Tirn could hear the twins galloping behind him, laughing. _Nothing dampens their spirits for long. Let us hope we find the Prince and their brother. An eternity with these two would be worse than being Morgoth's footstool._ With his sharp eyes, Tirn could perceive an area where the grass had been trampled so that it lay flat, with several small trails leading to it from the copse of trees. _It looks as though someone has been here recently._

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Blinding, numbing throbbing was the only sensation that the mercenary knew when he opened his eyes. The poison had ravaged his system, and though no permanent damage had been done, Ament could feel the strain of his lungs to draw in air and the rapid palpitations of his heart. There was only one way to alleviate these symptoms, for now and forever: the Goblet of Melfren.

_Never again will I suffer these human ailments,_ the mercenary pondered, blinking his aching eyes against the afternoon sunlight while trying to focus on the colossal, hovering shape above him. _Ramlin._ _It could only be my idiot brother._ Ament was aware that his sibling and another form that he believed to be Strider were trying to obtain his wavering attention. _Ramlin was here beside me the whole time._ He did not know whether this postulation were true or not, but he had felt his brother beside him, watching over him – it meant nothing to him that his brother cared for him, not now, not when the oaf had already threatened Ament's plans. The mercenary leader tried to tune into the animated conversation that was taking place around him.

Nervously, Ramlin queried, “...something you can give him?”

“He is waking,” the healer replied conciliatorily. “Give him a moment.” A cool wet cloth was placed over his forehead, and Ament felt suddenly alert, his memory of why and where he was coming to him in a rush.

“Ramlin,” the injured human responded as he tried to sit, “how much time have we lost?”

“Lay back down, brother. It is good to see you awake.” Ramlin’s joyful grin at seeing his brother conscious muddled Ament’s mind, but he laid back down when both the healer and his sibling’s hands pushed him firmly back onto the bedroll. “We’ve only lost one day. Strider says that we can leave tomorrow morning, maybe, when you’ve rested more.”

Ament glared at the healer; he was childishly angered that he needed the man’s help and that Strider had taken charge when he was unconscious, but his better sense took hold. _If anyone else had been in charge, no doubt, the forest would be burning and the Elf would be..._ The mercenary rose again hurriedly in panic, startling the two kneeling next to him. A deep relief flooded him when he saw the Elf across the clearing, staring emotionlessly in their direction. _The foul being is still alive, as is Ramlin. I suppose he behaved himself._ Strider had turned back to his mortar, mixing some concoction of herbs that Ament assumed would likely put him back to sleep or otherwise slow down their progress.

Turning to his brother, the leader ordered judiciously, “Get us ready, we leave now. What will heal me now lies only a day away.”

Although he made to argue, the behemoth grunted and then leapt to his feet to obey, a fact that pleased Ament. _Perhaps not having me around to guide him has reminded Ramlin how truly useless he is._

“Ament, you need more rest, you...”

The anxious leader interrupted his healer with an authoritative glare, “No, Strider. We ride through the night.”

The healer did not argue, but rose deferentially from his seat on the ground to pack with the rest of the men. Ament watched them, feeling the surge of adrenaline coming back that had kept him going thus far in his quest of revenge. _I am close. With the goblet and the Prince, I will have my vengeance and wealth beyond my wildest dreams._ Ament’s resolve returned, his desire to see King Thranduil suffer augmented by his imperative need to live an immortal life with the amenities that the King’s riches would buy. _Never will I want again, and I will have all of eternity to enjoy it._

The mercenaries were almost packed, though they moved sluggishly, their apprehension to travel through the dark forest in the coming night slowed their actions. He observed them, musing that he should be leading such a varied crew of criminals. _None is worth what I have promised them at the end of this journey._ Ament snickered to himself as he sat cross-legged on the forest floor. _I have no plans to pay them. What fools._

Ramlin, too, would enjoy the vengeance that Ament sought, if Ament had bothered to tell his brother the full extent of his plans. As of the moment, the younger sibling only knew that Ament desired a goblet for immortality, not for revenge against the King of Eryn Galen. _If Ramlin knew the Elf’s identity or my plans for him, he would no doubt have torn the Elf’s limbs from his ravaged body before now._ Ament was more than willing to let his brother die to see his plan’s fruition. _Strider will likely rid me of my imbecile sibling, and then, at least, one of us will see our parents avenged._

While the other men saddled the horses, Ramlin came back to his brother, squatting beside him to question, “Do you want me to saddle your horse?”

Ament only nodded to his brother’s question, his struggle to gain his feet taking too much of his concentration for him to answer vocally. Putting out a hand, Ramlin steadied his brother’s shaky stance surreptitiously as they walked to the horses, a deed rewarded with a nod of appreciation from Ament, who did not want to appear frail before the other men. He could almost smell their fear. The Elf, he noted as he pulled his weak, wounded leg over the saddle of his horse, was tied to Strider’s horse as usual. _He will not last long under Ramlin’s care, should the idiot survive long enough to have him._

Despite the violent soreness that he felt, and the throbbing headache that painted the scenery around him in pulses of red with each hoof beat of the hushed band of travelers, Ament smiled in genuine elation. _Soon._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The three Elves had split to cover more ground in the copse of trees and outlying grassy plain. Tirn had taken to the trees, knowing that the Elf Lords were accustomed to traveling with the Rangers, and therefore likely to be better trackers. He, however, intended to commune with the wooded dell. At least three of the tracks had led directly from the copse of trees, heading towards the Mirkwood forest.

Tirn picked his way through the copse carefully; he was unsure if he was following the path of whatever creatures had ran from the birches, but the blatant tracks upon the ground confirmed it. Broken underbrush and several deep footprints were scattered in a wide pattern throughout the glade. _They were all running,_ the sentry deliberated, _or some were running, and others were chasing._

As he searched through the trees, placing his hand intermittently on them to ascertain the presence of the Prince, the fair immortal sensed the disruption in the lifesong of the birches. The further he went, the stronger the disturbance, until Tirn no longer looked for signs of a trail, but bolted towards the source of the trees’ uneasiness. _The Prince was here, some ill has befallen him._ Breaking through a small clearing where the apex of disruption emanated, the Elf stumbled in distress. He found no Prince. _Legolas was here. The trees do not know him but they speak of him just the same._ Tirn paced the clearing, investigating the footprints and crumpled underbrush avidly. A flash of green cloth, nothing more than a scrap on the ground, stopped him. The Wood-Elf fell to his knees, seizing the torn fabric as if through it he could find the missing Prince.

_Eryn Galen colors._ He had not needed the material to be certain his Prince had been in this copse of birches, the trees themselves told him that Legolas had been there, and had been suffering. The sentry clasped the cloth tightly to his chest; it was his good fortune, and the Prince’s, that the trees also told him of no death. _There is hope yet._

He picked out the remaining, much lighter footprints in the dying daylight, eventually coming to the edge of the small copse where he found Elladan, Elrohir, and their horses following the trail towards him. Tirn called out to them an excited greeting, causing them to jump when he shouted, "My Lords!"

“By Ilúvatar! Silvan Elves are quiet!” Elladan jested, his mood lightened with his and Elrohir’s discoveries, their excitement making the whole trio smile in a strange manner.

Elrohir began when Tirn met them outside the birches, “We have a trail into the forest, Tirn. They are traveling...”

“...into Eryn Galen. These footprints are our brother’s,” Elladan finished. He knelt, pointing to a small, nearly indecipherable indentation in the ground, which was soft and pliable from the recent rainfall.

“How do you know this?” The sentry, although impressed at the twin’s skill, could not determine one footprint from the others, and likely would not have seen this small print on the ground, had it not been pointed out to him.

“Rangers tread lightly, much like the Elves,” Elrohir explained, his grin growing. "I know this is our brother's footsteps, for we taught him to walk this softly."

_Their brother is a Ranger?_ Tirn suppressed asking aloud the issue that had plagued him since meeting the two dark-haired Noldor, but questioned himself instead, _Why is their brother journeying with the men who took the Prince?_ Remembering his own findings, the sentry paled. _His prints lead to the place where Prince Legolas was harmed. What had this Ranger to do with this?_ A hand on his shoulder yanked the sentry from his thoughts, however, and Tirn's fair face colored as if he had been caught in his suspicious ponderings.

“What did you find?” Elladan’s scrutinizing gaze ran over Tirn’s reddened visage.

“The Prince went through these trees here,” he told them, indicating with a turn of his head the birches behind him. The twins nodded their agreement and continued to stare at him, waiting for him to finish. “The trees sing of Legolas, and of his anguish. He has undergone some ill there.”

Again, the twins nodded, though this time their shared countenance was sobered. Elrohir spoke, adding his hand to Tirn’s other shoulder in comfort, “Close to the Mirkwood border the grass laid flat as though a struggle had occurred. We found Elven blood spattered across the ground. Prince Legolas must have tried to escape only to be recaptured. He almost made it.” Tirn blanched, all color dropping from his face once more at the thought that his beloved Prince, his charge, had almost escaped, and had paid a hard levy for his attempt.

“We will find the Prince, and our brother. Have hope. The trail leads into Mirkwood, so surely your knowledge of the forest will put us at an advantage.”

Elladan’s trusting and friendly words revived the sentry’s optimism. _I do not know how well my skills will help us but we have tracks, and the forest can lead us towards the Prince._

Tirn grinned, his questions and misgivings about the Noldor's Ranger brother and worry about the incident in the trees pushed aside for now. “Let us go, then.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deep night fell once again on the band of men in the Mirkwood forest: they were at a standstill as Ament pored over the map in his hand. Aragorn had not had the chance to speak to Legolas alone since the night before but he knew the Elf had not changed his mind. _Another chance at escape is lost, now that we ride at night, also._ Sighing, Strider turned his attention to the immortal before him, who sat proudly, head held high regardless of the discomfiture of his situation. _He will sacrifice much to see through our shoddy plan._ Snorting softly, the Ranger corrected, _What plan? We have none. We walk into this danger and hope for the best._

Ament groaned, his frustration evident in his robust scowl as he finally spoke. “This should be it. If that fool farmer has led us astray...”

_Valar, we have arrived already._ The Ranger could sense the Prince’s body stiffen in anticipation of whatever may occur now that their destination was reached. The mercenary did not finish his threat; he did not have to speak for the men and Elf around him to understand the depths of his ire. Aragorn had considered the possibility that the farmer had lied, or had been lied to, but it seemed impossible for such a thing to occur, not after all they had already endured.

Doran asked their leader, “This is it? What are we looking for, anyway?” The mercenaries had been riding all night, squirming under the watchful eyes in the trees around them, and now they were eager to be rid of Mirkwood’s hospitality.

“Yes, this is it, now quiet lest you lose your tongue,” Ament spat, not bothering to look at the tall archer.

Meika helped Strider remove Legolas from his bindings in the same manner as they had done previously. The actions had become routine, and the Elf did not resist; the knife the Ranger held at his throat, while of no real threat to him, gave the appearance that their captive was under control.

Sliding off his steed when Meika held Legolas upright, his feet bound once more, Aragorn inspected the area in which they had stopped. _There is nothing here but dirt and trees. And the eyes._ Strider was as unnerved at the yellow orbs peering from the dark limbs of the forest as the other men. Only Legolas seemed to be oblivious to the menace as Strider held him upright, waiting for instruction before he sat down the Elf. _He is used to the eyes. We are in his homeland._

“It is only a few hours until daylight, brother. Surely, this is where the farmer told you it lay, though I remember not his directions. Why do we not rest, wait until the sun shines upon us, and look then?”

Ramlin’s suggestion was met with hopeful enthusiasm by the tired mercenaries and scorn by his older sibling: however, their leader relented, saying, “Fine. Make camp. Tomorrow we search.”

At this order, the band of men set about making camp, eager to eat and rest before they were forced back into action by the coming dawn. Aragorn aided Legolas to a tree near to the campfire that Jalian was building, intending to keep the Elf as close to the others as possible. _I wish I knew what Ament knows of where this artifact is hidden._

Ere he could leave Legolas, the Elf whispered, “Nature calls, Strider.”

Leaning down to speak to the captive, Aragorn whispered in return, “I suppose you didn’t get the chance last time.”

He was undecided, though, as to how to take the Elda without inciting another incident. _Although if Ramlin causes another problem, at least I have Ament's blessing to stop him._

“Last time I planned to escape. This time I have no intention of leaving.”

Frowning deeply, the Ranger’s gray eyes lit with concern as he replied, “Escape is still the best option for you, my friend.” Seeing the resolve in the Elf, though, the healer knew he could not convince Legolas to leave, not with his father and his people in jeopardy. The Prince said nothing, last night’s humor forgotten under the serious circumstances they undertook. “Fine. Hold, and I will speak to Ament.”

Swiftly, he walked to opposite the campfire, where Ramlin was aiding his brother in sitting. _Valar, please, do not let Ramlin accompany us._

When he had reached the leader, he first saw to the mercenary’s wounds, disregarding the man’s insistence that he did not need any healing. “I am fine, Strider, leave me be.”

“Your wounds may become infected, Ament. This will only take a moment.”

He lifted the bandage, checking the temperature and color of the poisoned flesh. _All is well, it seems._ Aragorn could not help hoping that the mercenary would succumb to the poison, if only to alleviate him of another barrier to his and Legolas’ safety, but was aggrieved that he should feel so. _He has his reasons, as erroneous as they may be. Besides, I could not sit by and allow him to die, not if I could help him._ Sometimes his teachings to be a good healer outweighed all else.

Ramlin had not left his brother’s side during the examination, and now turned to Strider, asking, “Well?”

“It seems you are healing fine, Ament, though perhaps I can give you something for the pain,” the Ranger responded, directing his conversation towards the leader and not his perverse brother.

“As I told you, Strider, I do not need your expertise or your herbs,” Ament touted testily, though his recoil at the healer’s tightening his bandage showed otherwise.

Grimacing in expectation of the leader’s reaction, Aragorn stated casually, giving up on aiding the mercenary any more than what he already had, “The Elf has needs to be attended to. He did not get the chance last time.” Shooting a furtive glance at Ramlin, the Ranger hoped that Ament would allow him and Legolas enough privacy that the immortal’s more pressing need to flee could be foisted upon him, a need that could not be argued if Ramlin tagged along.

“Take him, Strider, but take Meika with you.” The leader yelled out to the men around the fire, “Meika, help Strider take the Elf to piss.”

Swallowing a moan of frustration, the Ranger stood, leaving an angered Ramlin to feed his sibling dried meat. _Great, it will be hard convincing Legolas to leave with Meika in attendance._ Meika followed the Ranger nervously to the Elf, helping him to ready Legolas for their excursion by securing the Elf's hands before him and cutting loose his feet, but tying a knotted length of rope about his wrists as a leash so that the Elda could not flee. Repeatedly, the older mercenary looked back to the other mercenaries, his edginess not lost on the Ranger or Elf, who shared a glance of disquiet. _Why does he act so?_

The three did not hike far into the dark forest before Aragorn halted, his desire to convince Legolas to escape shining clearly in his face. The Prince unlaced his leggings, his back to the two men, and relieved himself to the cacophony of the tainted woods.

“Strider,” Meika mumbled, his voice lost in the soft sound of the forest.

“Yes,” the Ranger replied, his hold on the leash slack as he turned to the older man, his mind more on how to convince Meika to leave them alone for a moment than listening to what the older man had to say. “What is it?”

“This is the Prince of Mirkwood, is it not?”

Aragorn tried to act nonchalant at the mention of the Elf’s title, hoping his surprise did not show to know that Meika had learned Legolas' identity. _No one is supposed to know._ He peered at the man, trying to determine why the mercenary would ask him this and what he should tell him. Legolas, he saw, was quickly lacing his leggings, his needs tended, and his back straighter than normal with tension wrought by the human’s query.

Strider countered, “Why would such a thing concern you, Meika?”

The human fidgeted in indecision before narrowing his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, and claiming with his head tilted to the side in question, “I heard you, last night, talking. I know what you plan. You will set the Elf free, will you not?”

The Prince, by this time, had turned to face the two humans, his expression impassive. Aragorn’s heartbeat rose in intensity quickly. _We are found out._

“I do not know what you think you overheard, Meika. Perhaps you dreamt,” the Ranger stated, attempting to evade the man’s inquiry.

_If Ament hears of this, I am dead, and Legolas soon to follow._

“I did not dream, Strider,” Meika replied spitefully, “And I am not an idiot.” The mercenary sighed, his brow furrowed into lines of hesitancy and determination, a mix that the Ranger found infuriatingly hard to decipher. Glaring hard at the Elf, Meika continued, “I do not understand the others' hatred. I have no love for the Elves, but nor do I hold any hatred for your kind. Ramlin has told us what he intends to do with you after you have served your purpose to Ament.”

Legolas said nothing, as did Aragorn, until the tense silence was broken by the mercenary’s sigh. “I’ve no wish to see anyone suffer at the hands of Ramlin. Not even an Elf. I was wrong to think that I could ever enjoy the spoils of such an exploit at the expense of another.” Laughing derisively at himself, the human added, “’Spose that doesn’t make me much of a mercenary, does it?”

_Who would have guessed Meika to be a good man?_ the Ranger thought.

Unable to respond in their shock at the man’s sudden decency, the Elf and Ranger only listened mutely as the mercenary implored, “Run. I will see that the others do not follow.”

“You hazard too much,” Legolas said, while making no move to leave.

Meika leant down, picking up a fallen branch the width of a human arm from the ground. “Leave,” he growled, hefting the limb in his hands ominously. “Be gone, Elf, before there is trouble.”

Strider stepped between the Elf and man, not sure how or whether to explain to the man that Legolas wished to stay. He was unprepared for the swinging branch that assailed his unprotected face, not believing the man meant to strike him but Legolas, and was rendered limp ere he hit the forest floor. _Sweet Eru,_ he thought uselessly, as he fell to his hands and knees, struggling to stay alert.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had taken convincing but the addled Ament had finally caved into letting his brother check on the errant mercenaries by reminding him of the Elf’s wiliness in their last escapade. _Never mind that the Elf almost escaped because of that fool Strider._ He had not forgotten the healer’s interference in his last chance at fun with their captive, though the healer had helped Ament, and for this Ramlin had grudgingly decided to allow Strider to remain amongst the living. Ramlin had also not forgotten the Elf’s surprising assistance to the healer, though the latter he relegated to the Elf’s desire to knock Ramlin unconscious, also, so that the Elf could flee unobstructed.

Ramlin tread softly through the gnarled roots of the woods, not wanting to interrupt the Elf from his business lest he miss the sight of the fair immortal partially unclothed.

The sight he came privy to was one he was even happier not to have missed. Ramlin approached the threesome unnoticed because the Elf and healer were absorbed in whatever Meika was telling the two: suddenly, Meika bent to the ground, picked up a limb from it, which he brandished at Strider and the Elf.

“...be gone, Elf, before there is trouble,” Ramlin heard Meika say as the mammoth mercenary grew closer. He watched Meika pelt the healer with his wooden club, knocking Strider to the forest floor.

Ramlin rushed from the underbrush, his dagger drawn, advancing on the older mercenary. _Traitor. He wants to let my Elf go free, does he?_

“Meika, you fool,” Ramlin growled, and then rushed towards the older mercenary, blade outthrust.

“Legolas, run,” the older human hissed, turning to face the Elda, whose eyes turned wide at the sight of his previous attacker in such similar circumstances as his last assault.

Initially, Meika’s words went on deaf ears: the Elf did not move. When Ramlin thrust his dagger into the unprotected back of the turned mercenary, the Elf still did not move for he was seemingly rooted to the spot, which only delighted Ramlin.

_Legolas, Prince Legolas?_

Strider had fallen but had not lost consciousness, and Ramlin watched as he pulled his broadsword with a singing swoosh of air, though he was surprised, despite his previous misgivings, to find the blade pointed towards him when Strider stood, not at the Elf or the fallen, dying older mercenary. Unsteadily, the healer backed towards the Elf, who remained as motionless as before, staring at Meika’s sputtering, bleeding form with sad bafflement.

The brute mercenary grinned, his face lit with feral anticipation. “Legolas? Thranduilion?” Ramlin’s question did not need a response, for the Elf Prince looked sharply at Ramlin, his alarmed expression answering for him.

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

“Move no closer, Ramlin,” the healer warned; “Your brother has given me leave to protect the Elf at all costs.” Strider held his broadsword out menacingly, the tip staunchly pointed towards the advancing mercenary.

_He knows who I am now,_ Legolas considered, _and this makes my staying seem like a much less agreeable idea. What was I thinking? There is no valor in dying by this monster’s hands._

“Legolas.” Ramlin’s grin grew larger until the Elf was sure the man’s head would split in two, though he did not aspire to stay to find out. “I can’t imagine why Ament didn’t tell me that you were King Thranduil’s son.” Sickly sweet and cruel, the brute’s words nearly caused Legolas to flee just then, but he still held hope that Strider would diffuse the situation and their plan salvaged. He knew what the mercenary wanted from him: his death and suffering.

_Valar, what do we do now, Strider?_

The man did not stop his slow approach towards the Elf and healer, forcing Strider to step in front of Legolas. “I will kill you, Ramlin, if you move any closer,” Strider quietly warned. Such vehemence did the human put into this statement that Ramlin ceased, focusing on the healer.

“Traitors, that’s what you are. You and Meika. What did you plan to do, kill Ament and me, take the goblet for yourselves?” The mercenary snickered; his throaty laugh was interrupted only by the appearance of Doran, his bow drawn, the arrow pointed at Strider’s outstretched arm as he crashed through the underbrush and into the minute clearing.

“Egad, Ramlin, what is happening?” The tall archer did not take his eyes or his aim off Strider or Legolas for long, though he noted with dismay the slain man lying on the ground.

_His arrow will fly if either of us moves._

Doran had only caught the end of their conversation, it seemed, for he queried, his brow furrowed in uncertainty, “Strider and Meika are traitors?”

“They want to free Prince Legolas and take the goblet. They were going to kill us.” Before the healer could counter this claim, Ramlin leapt forward, making as though to seize Legolas. The Elf stepped backwards instinctively, while Strider swung his blade through the air, its burnished metal reflecting the moonlight in the few seconds of its path – it fell to the forest floor with a clatter when a singing arrow pierced the healer’s forearm, causing Strider to lose his grip. Ramlin halted his advance, smiling back at Doran, who was fitting his bow with another arrow. Grabbing his wounded limb, his sword arm, the healer looked only at the Elf, wordlessly beseeching him to flee this increasingly perilous sham.

The arrow wound did not impede the healer for long, though, for he roughly pulled the shaft free, reaching for his fallen sword while turning to Legolas. “Run,” the human shouted.

The Prince jumped, his reverie broken, but the Elf hesitated. _I cannot leave Strider to face these two men alone._ The sudden thought occurred to him, _Nay, Ramlin, at least, would follow._ Legolas darted away, hoping that the mercenary would chase him, for he did not wish to leave the young human to fight his battles, but the Prince was also afraid of what would happen should Ramlin catch him.

Whirling back to Ramlin and Doran, blade in his other hand, Strider waited for another attack, but both men concentrated only on the Elf. Doran let loose his second arrow, the projectile flying true and piercing the fleeing Prince’s thigh. Ramlin waited long enough for the Elf to stagger before he lunged forward. Vainly attempting to maintain hold of the hilt of his sword in spite of the lacerating pain in his arm, the healer faced the aggressively nearing Doran, who held his own blade in hand, the bow dropped carelessly on the grass behind him in favor of a weapon that did not need time for preparation between attacks.

Legolas plummeted to the forest floor onto his knees, the arrowhead jarring his thighbone as the shaft hit the earth. _I cannot stop._ The untainted trees called out to him, their anguish at the immortal’s pain the background to the similar, though more deadly circumstances playing out around him. Paying no heed to the agony in his thigh, the Elf stood, feeling the presence of Ramlin behind him and knowing that should he fall another time, his life would be forfeit.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ramlin had watched the Elf collapse and had almost caught hold of the leash that still looped around the immortal’s tied wrists, but the Prince had been too swift in moving.

_He will not move so quickly with Doran’s arrow in his leg,_ Ramlin thought smugly, ignoring the altercation that was taking place behind him and giving pursuit to his fleeing prey.

The Elf was slowed from this new wound, and perhaps his other injuries, but he had the advantage of knowing how to run through the twisted, web-like trees.

_No bother,_ the mercenary thought, huffing as he followed the Elf at the fastest pace at which he could run, _his leg will give._

The pair ran further out into the dark depths of Eryn Galen, Legolas’ fair head guiding the mercenary to his quarry in the dim light of the moon.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Valar, please let Legolas find safety._ Even as he parried Doran’s blade, the Ranger’s only coherent thoughts, other than his instinctual decisions during the swordplay, were of the Elf’s welfare. _Please do not let Ramlin find him._ The throbbing, hemorrhaging wound on his forearm made his hand slick with blood and his sword arm wobbly. He would not last long in this fight, he knew. _I just need to last long enough for Legolas to flee so that Doran cannot follow, too._

Ranger and mercenary paced circles in the small glade, their swords almost too long to avoid hitting the trunks of the gnarled trees around them, and only when the archer took the offensive did the two blades clash. Aragorn did not desire to kill the man before him but he would if forced. It was only his persistent belief that somehow he could convince these men not to use the goblet, or perhaps that they would see reason, with or without Ament's approval, that kept him from slaying the blond archer.

Doran, much like the other mercenaries, was not averse to fighting in an underhanded fashion; the Ranger soon found this out, as the archer pulled from his waist a small dagger. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flew through the air even as Doran kept the healer's attention elsewhere by swinging his sword and distracting the Ranger in avoiding it. Even still, had not Aragorn seen the movement while blocking the archer's sword, the thrown blade would have found his chest instead of the tree behind him. He vaulted sideways, out of its path, just as Doran yanked another blade from his waist.

Aragorn thought forlornly when the second blade struck his body, _How many weapons does this man carry?_

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_They have been gone too long..._ The leader’s restless movements belied his otherwise calm exterior. _I should have known not to trust that idiot. Strider and Meika likely had to take Ramlin down just to keep him from touching the Elf._ It hadn’t taken much for Ramlin to convince Ament that he should help watch over the Elf. In fact, Ament had almost suggested the very thing himself, for he had reasoned if his younger sibling had any more licentious motives for the Prince that Strider would dispatch him. However, he had eventually feared that his brother would be too much for Strider to handle, and he could not be sure that Meika would help the healer, and so had sent Doran, Ramlin’s friend, to follow in case there were difficulties. _They have all been warned: anyone who becomes a liability is dead._

Jalian sat by the small fire, glancing expectantly at the section of the forest through which Meika, Doran, Strider, Ramlin, and the Elf had left. _The fool is more worried for his idiot friend, Meika, than for our plan._ Although Ament did not intend to share the fruits of their labor with the other mercenaries, he still expected their total fidelity.

Unanticipatedly, Jalian ran to the opening through which the others had left, his departure taking aback the leader, who had neither heard nor seen anything to justify such an abrupt action. _The hideous imbecile had better..._

Ament’s deleterious musings were halted when Doran walked panting into their campsite with Strider thrown haphazardly over his shoulder, bound and bleeding. _Where is the Elf?_ Seconds later, Jalian straggled behind, his face painted with grief. The leader jumped to his feet, stalking across the clearing to his two minions as fast as his wounded leg would take him.

Ament prodded, whispering murderously, “Doran?” Nothing else had to be said.

Forthwith, the archer relinquished his burden to the soil, thoughtless of the further damage the healer may bear by it. Sighing as he shook his head, the archer replied, sounding bewildered by his own explanation, “I am not sure what happened, Ament. I came upon Strider with his sword held upon Ramlin. Meika lay dead. Ramlin said that Meika and Strider intended to let the Elf go free. When Strider told the Elf to run, Ramlin took off after him while I detained Strider.”

_I care not for this supposed uprising so long as I have the Elf._

Seething, his eyes ablaze with absolute agitation, Ament queried softly, though his tone was not mild as he leant towards the archer, “And where is the Elf?”

Not desiring his friend to become the victim of his brother’s wrath, Doran reasoned, “The Elf tried to run. My arrow found the Prince’s thigh so he will not flee far. Ramlin chases him through the forest, Ament. I'm certain he'll catch him.”

In the gloomy, somber forest, where the moonlight barely lit their surroundings, Ament appeared as a rubescent lunatic, his flaming hair spiraling out further as the leader tore at it while he moaned in frustration. He shrieked, “You shot him?” Ament strode forward, his ire causing the wilted Jalian and confused Doran to step back with each advancing step. Their leader gained on them, though, and Ament seized the front of the much taller mercenary’s tunic, hauling Doran’s face closer to his. “You shot him.”

“Was only in the leg, boss, like he said,” Jalian tried to intervene, but his objections died away when Ament turned his infuriated, insane gaze upon him.

“You shot him,” Ament repeated, facing the archer again, spittle flying from his mouth into Doran’s face.

Doran cared much more for his life than for his currently drenched countenance, and pled, “Not fatal, Ament. I couldn’t let him get away. This is his forest. If Ramlin loses Legolas then we’ll be delayed. I didn’t want to delay us.”

He released his hold on Doran. The archer stood erect, finally wiping the moisture from his face and glancing sidelong at Jalian, who seemed unmindful to anything but his sorrow over Meika’s death. At first, Ament saw the rationale behind this explanation. However, now that his mind worked with reason, rather than the intense emotion that had prompted his outburst, Ament came to a very disturbing realization.

“Legolas? You called the Elf Legolas.” Searching the bewildered archer’s face, Ament felt his bile rising.

“That’s what Ramlin called him,” Doran stated, shrugging his shoulders. "Thought that was his name."

Ament became completely still, his unexpected change terrifying the two mercenaries more than his fury. _Ramlin knows. If we do not find him before he destroys the Elf then all has been laid to waste. I need the Elf._

“Doran.” Ament’s vociferation startled even himself. “Strider, he lives?”

“Yes, he is injured but he lives.” Doran fretted with the string of his bow, which had been broken in the mêlée. The archer seemed reluctant to answer any more questions.

As he picked his own weapons from the forest floor beside his bedroll, Ament ignored the shooting pain in his wounded leg and asked, “How badly is he injured?”

Doran hesitated, looking down at the prone body of the healer, confused and unsure as to what may set their leader into another fit of rage, and wanting to avoid this if at all possible. “Not too bad. He took an arrow to the arm and one of my small daggers to his side. When he fell, I knocked him unconscious. He'll be hurting, but he won't die.”

The leader paused in his preparations, pointing at Doran as he promised, “If Strider dies, so will you. If the Elf dies from your arrow, you will meet the same fate. Do you understand?”

“But, he held his sword on Ramlin, who said Strider’s a traitor: Strider told the Elf to run. What does it matter if he dies?"

Ament approached the archer, who withered under his leader's demented glower. “Because, ass, Ramlin will tear our pretty captive apart and Strider is the only one who can put him back together, traitor or not.” The leader whirled to face Jalian. “See to his injuries the best you can but leave him tied. Doran and I will find the Elf and my wayward brother.”

Not waiting for Jalian to respond, but knowing the mercenary would not dare to counter his pronouncement, Ament sprinted into the woods, Doran close behind.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Elrohir.” Elladan had been trying to gain the attention of his brother for several minutes, but without victory. “Elrohir, answer me. What is it that you see?”

_I see nothing,_ Elrohir longed to explain, his mouth moving as though to speak, but his mind so overcome with the sensations of terror and pain that he could not break through his malaise. _I see nothing. I feel it. Estel lies still while Legolas runs through the shadows. Where are you, muindor?_

With no conception of what was occurring, Tirn waited patiently to the side, calming the horses, which had become frightened by the Eldar's fear, for the horses had sensed their masters' terror. They had just made the Mirkwood border by following the hoof prints they had found earlier when Elrohir had fallen from his saddle, crumpling lifelessly into a heap on the grassy plain.

“Elrohir, please,” his twin begged.

_If we do not reach them soon, both will die. I feel it. They will both die._ No images ran through the Noldo’s mind, no visions offered him any clues as to what was happening, or how to stop it. All he could do was feel, and listen to himself, for the words with which he described the sensations did not seem to come from him. As without warning as the trance came, it departed, leaving Elrohir to feel bereft of hope. _I do not even know where they are, but it is all the more important that we find them immediately._

“Elrohir?”

“They will both die, Elladan, I can feel it,” he proffered without preamble. “We are near to them, I think, but I do not know where they are. I cannot see them,” Elrohir whispered, his eyes glazed over again, though this time with tears and fatigue, and his body slack with exhaustion and desolation. Elladan swept his twin into his arms, and turning his weary, frightened stare upon their sentry companion, only shook his head in silence, unable to explain to Tirn what his twin had told him.

“Is he well?” Tirn did not know exactly what the Noldo had suffered; however, after the dark Elf had spoken, he knew to whom he referred, at least.

Elladan allayed the sentry’s fears. “He will be fine, Tirn. He is fatigued, as are we, but the...” the Elf strained to find the appropriate word, “the revelations tire him.”

“What will we do?”

“We move on.”

The sentry nodded, eager to progress onwards himself, though he knelt, laying his hand on Elrohir’s head, which lay upon his twin’s arm. “Are you sure he is well?”

Smiling gravely and touched by the sentry’s concern for his twin’s welfare, Elladan replied, “I feel him, Tirn, as he feels Estel and Legolas, as he feels me, though it is stronger between us than I would say he feels for our missing brethren." The Noldo nodded, adding, "Elrohir is well.”

Bewildered by the perceptive sons of Lord Elrond, the sentry stood, picking up and cradling one such son in his arms as the other mounted his horse. As he handed Elrohir to his brother, both sentry and Noldo heard the slumbering Elrohir mutter, “Run, Legolas, hurry.”

Their journey was expedited by the petrifying prophecy and sleepy counsel Elrohir had given, and the two sentient Elves of their search party felt hope fade from them, as well, while they traveled into the dark Mirkwood forest.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fair immortal was drained, all his energy was depleted in his effort to avoid the lumbering mercenary who had managed to keep up with his flight. _I hope Strider has found safety,_ Legolas worried. The again reopened wounds he had endured from the hunting trap were now complicated with the arrow shaft protruding from his other leg, such that each step the Elda took was infused with blinding pain. Hurtling through the trees, Legolas trusted only his millennia of experience in running through the mangled and convoluted woods of his home and his faith in the untainted of the trees around him to guide him to safety.

Ramlin, he knew, was not far behind. Had he not been grievously injured, malnourished, beaten, and bound, Legolas could have vanished from the mercenary’s sight at once, never to be seen again. _If these were different circumstances, and I had so much as a dagger, I would take the foul beast out even tied._ Blood trailed behind him, glinting in the pale moonlight, but not enough for the mercenary to track, at least not with the haste with which he currently pursued the Elda. _It is the reflection of my hair in the moonlight that he sees. He tracks my light hair and skin and hears the flat footsteps my injuries force me to make. I can do nothing for it, lest I take to the trees._

He yearned to leap into the boughs of the forest; the trees that had been tainted with the evil of the Dark One were too many in number this far south. Legolas knew the once loving forest could turn on him, delivering him into the hands of his adversary, an easy exploit with his hands still bound and his leg barely working. The Elf broke his mad dash through the trees, sucking air into his burning lungs as he stopped to examine the arrow in the side of his leg. His once light leggings were stained crimson with his own blood; it pooled in his boot and seeped from the leather onto the ground. _I have to bind this or I will bleed to death. I will be of no use to Strider then._ As soon as he lost Ramlin, Legolas intended to return to the camp for his human benefactor.

He leant against a trunk, and ripping a length of cloth from his already torn tunic, the Elf tried to wind the strip around his thigh but his clammy, shaking hands felt the arrow’s shaft. _Ai Valar. I need to pull this out, first._ Stifling a groan at the thought of the upcoming pain, Legolas grasped the shaft, bit his lip at the already intense waves of agony that washed over him, and realized that they would only increase. _This must come out if you want to retain any blood at all,_ he advised himself sarcastically. _On three. One,_ the Elf tightened his grip, _two,_ he forced his leg to relax in hopes of reducing the pain and damage, _three._

Even through the flesh, Legolas could hear the scrape of the arrowhead along his thighbone; moreover, he could feel it. Its sharpened head thankfully still attached, the arrow pulled free with a sickening, wet, sucking sound. Incandescent blood poured forth from the wound ere the Elf could manage to tie the strip of his tunic around it. _Too much blood._ His agony drove all other awareness from him so that when the mercenary spoke, Legolas did not take notice of him at first.

“Did you not hear me, pretty one?”

Legolas opened his eyes, ignorant that they had been shut, to see Ramlin walking casually towards him. The brute’s chest heaved with the exertion of keeping up with the Elda. _Valar, no please. Not again._ He could not move nor flee, the loss of blood had caught up to him, and the Elf’s vision swam; besides these detriments, Legolas knew that even should he try, he would not move as quickly as Ramlin, not in his current state.

“It looks like you are hurt, Princeling. May I kiss it to make you feel better?”

“I would rather die.”

“That can be arranged, sweet Elfling,” Ramlin chastised, the distance between the archer and mercenary lessening with the slow advancement Ramlin made to the tree against which Legolas leant. “You must learn to be nice to your new master.”

_Master? I would rather bleed to death._ The Elf’s hands clenched in frustration at his own weakness, clutching the arrow he still held. _The arrow. Ramlin does not see it, else he would bear a weapon himself,_ Legolas pondered, keeping his hand still so that the mercenary's attention would not be drawn to the weapon.

“Not your master for too long, though, pretty one. I do not think you will last. You will beg for death before I am through with you, though death is too good for you, Thranduilion.” Ramlin spat the last word as though it left a sour taste in his mouth. “There will be nothing left of you when I am finished.”

Saying nothing, the immortal waited for the mercenary to near. He dared not move but closed his eyes briefly to fight his nausea. _Come on, bastard human._ The mercenary obliged, drawing closer.

“Don’t you want to beg for mercy?” Ramlin snickered maliciously, his eyes shining with lust, his desire for destruction and the infliction of his will on another turning the Elf’s stomach. Legolas could not have escaped had he tried, even upon hearing the mercenary’s first comment. He could barely hold himself standing as it was, for too much of his blood pooled on the ground where he stood.

Finally, Legolas discerned through half-lidded eyes that the human had stepped near enough for Legolas to stab the foul being with the arrow. Charging forward, the Elf launched himself at the mercenary, arrow before him, set to puncture the disgusting human’s heart. However, the mercenary moved quickly, and the Wood-Elf suddenly found his hands jerked violently to the side. The Elda fell to his knees, his arms now high above his head. Ramlin held the rope leash in his hand, tugging it playfully, painfully, as he smiled down at the Wood-Elf.

“I’m not that stupid, my Princeling.” Ramlin wrenched the rope again, causing Legolas to lose his hold of the only weapon he had when the ropes bit into his skin, abrading his flesh, the pain causing his fingers to release the arrow. His only chance at evading the mercenary was now lost as Legolas fell onto his stomach. The Elf felt the human’s hand in his flaxen hair, stroking its silky locks before he hauled it viciously, hefting Legolas up onto his knees, and then, in another mighty tug that the immortal was sure had pulled most of his mane free from the scalp at the base of his head, Ramlin heaved the Elf back to his feet. Legolas could not maintain his balance but the mercenary aided him in keeping upright by pushing his weight against the Elf, and the Elf against the tree behind him.

Pressing his massive body into Legolas’ smaller form, Ramlin promised, “You are mine.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder to pay attention to the warnings -- they apply mostly to this chapter.

Estel opened his bleary eyes groggily, certain that if he could only determine who was speaking, he would know where he was. _What has happened?_ Stretching his fingers out, the Ranger realized that he lay on his side on the ground with his hands bound behind him.

Blinking rapidly to drive the haze from his thinking, the healer tried to identify the voice that inquired dolefully, “Are you with me? I know naught of healing, mate, so you’d better wake up if you want to live. Not that you’ll live that much longer if Ament don’t find the Elf. What were you thinking, Strider? Telling that one to run. Even I know the story of Ramlin and Ament’s parents, and now, knowing who the Elf really is, you’d better hope that they find Ramlin before he kills it. You’d better wake up, mate, you need...”

_Legolas. I hope he has escaped._ The Ranger tuned out the inane exchange that the mercenary held one-sidedly. _Jalian is telling me what I had better do? Great. Advice from a ruthless mercenary._ Aragorn caught himself before groaning. _I am back at the camp._

Finally, the healer spoke, interrupting Jalian’s nervous discourse. “Untie me,” Aragorn quietly entreated, breaking Jalian’s rant.

With more kindness than the Ranger had expected, the disfigured mercenary explained, “Doran told us what happened, Strider. He told us you were freeing the Elf, and that you told it to run. He said Meika is dead.” Jalian paused, and then asked, his soft voice suddenly hard with emotion and his hand fisted in the Ranger’s sleeve, “Did you kill Meika?”

“I did not, I promise you.” Strider did not expect the mercenary to believe him. _I have been lying this whole time. He has no reason to have faith in me._

Surprisingly, Jalian released Aragorn’s coat, sighing, “Of course not. You wanted to free the Elf, just like he did. Meika told me he heard you and it talking. Said you told it to leave that night but it wouldn’t.”

Strider listened in baffled alarm. _Jalian also knew of this?_

The mercenary continued, peering out into the night as he sat back on his haunches, “Said he would make it leave. Didn’t like what Ramlin wanted to do to it.” The glum man looked down at his hands, studying the shaking palms intently, while he quipped angrily, “Always was too soft, that one. Knew I wouldn’t tell on him.”

_He is grieving,_ the healer thought, observing the ashen and quivering countenance of the human beside him.

“Jalian, you have to untie me.” The Ranger held his tied hands out behind him for emphasis, disregarding the undulating ripples of agony this action caused in his arm and side.

The mercenary shook his hanging head, not bothering to look the healer in the eye. “Can’t do it, Strider. Boss’ll be back with the Elf soon. Just tell me what to do for you.”

Strider tried again, “It is not worth this, Jalian. It wasn’t to Meika.” It was an undeserved blow to the man to use Meika against the sorrowful Jalian but Aragorn was desperate.

“Just tell me what to do for your arm,” the mercenary repeated, raising his head to face the Ranger, his eyes squinting with firm decisiveness. _It is worth it to him, apparently._

The young healer debated whether to press the matter further, wondering if Jalian might be persuaded; instead, as the mercenary aided him into sitting, a task that aggravated the wound in his side such that Aragorn inadvertently groaned lightly, he asked, “Why am I still alive if Ament knows that I tried to free the Elf?”

“You’re the only one that knows healing. Ament said he’d need you if Ramlin caught it.”

_Its name,_ the healer thought rancorously, _is Legolas._ While the mercenary fetched the satchel of herbs and bandages that the Ranger never traveled without, Estel reflected on the complications further perplexing his and Legolas’ circumstances. _If they do not bring the Prince back, I am of no use to Ament. If they do bring him back, I fear in what condition he will be. I have become a liability: either way, one of us is dead immediately with the other soon to follow._

“Here.” Jalian tossed the bag to Aragorn ere he remembered the man’s hands were still tied. With a phantom smile, the mercenary stooped down, grabbed the satchel and opened it as he said, “Sorry. What do I need to do?”

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He was not an expert tracker but he did not need to be, not with the silvery, claret drops of blood that splattered the foliage and forest floor that lead him in the direction of his brother and the Elf. _The Prince has lost much blood to leave us such a trail as this._ Ament hurried after Doran, who sped in front, his head darting back and forth in his effort not to miss any clues as to his friend and captive’s whereabouts. The leader knew that Ramlin’s actions were not his own, that he was acting only as he had been taught, as Ament had shaped him into being – this did not mean that he would not hold Ramlin accountable for his actions.

His thoughts turned to Strider and his supposed role in the Elf’s flight. _I’ve no doubt that Ramlin turned the situation to his advantage._ The throbbing headache from the spider’s poison had not yet left the leader, and each footstep's pain resounded throughout his mind like the sound of Oliphants dancing. With little time for the fang wounds in his leg to heal, Ament was further aggravated by the unceasing ache each footstep also afforded him. _They were all warned. Each of them. If Strider has interfered, if he has become a liability, he will meet his end. The same goes for Doran, and my unruly sibling._

“Why do you stop?” Ament had nearly crashed into the man in front of him, having been too caught up in his thoughts to notice that Doran had ceased walking.

“I think we are going the wrong way, Ament. I can see the blood no longer with the moon behind the clouds. It is too dark.”

Stifling the urge to strangle the mercenary with his bare hands, Ament merely growled in irritation. “Can you not see the footprints on the ground? Surely Ramlin has left them, if the Elf has not.” The two searched the ground about them, losing precious moments that Ament knew could mean the difference between the fruition of his plans and the premature death of several disobedient mercenaries who were under his direction.

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Leaning in to whisper in the Elf’s ear, the mercenary promised, “Long have I desired to watch you bleed, to make you suffer, Thranduilion. You will pay the price for your father’s misdeeds.”

Ramlin delighted in the tremulous form under his body, the feeling of the Elf’s weak resistance exciting him beyond any longing he had experienced prior to this moment of extreme resolution. He held the Prince’s body tightly against the tree with his own, rubbed his clothed, muscled torso over the bare chest of the Elda, and continued to whisper his vows of torture and grief that he intended to inflict upon the injured creature.

“Beg me for forgiveness and perhaps I will not wait too long ere I release you from your suffering... after, of course, I am through with you.” With this, the mercenary tangled his hand in the Elf’s hair, pulling the captive to face him. “Beg me, pretty.”

The proud Elf’s voice did not hesitate, nor did the nobility in his eyes waver, as he replied, “If I pay any price for the misdeeds you claim against my father, I do so unwillingly, for I do not doubt that your blame is misplaced, and I will not supplicate myself to a filthy human.”

Ramlin was astonished at the Prince’s resolve. He had not expected the Elf to surrender his dignity easily but he also did not anticipate the pretentiousness with which the Prince spoke. _It is no matter. Nothing will stop me. I will watch the Elf draw his final breath broken and despairing._

“Fine, Elfling. Have it your way, although I assure you your way is much more painful.” Removing Legolas’ support in remaining upright by removing himself from the Elf’s body, Ramlin grabbed his captive’s neck, using it to sling the Prince to the forest floor. Legolas landed with a thud; he made as though to rise, but Ramlin viciously kicked the Elf back down with a well-placed boot to the stomach. Again, the Elf tried to gain his feet. Allowing his prey to move to his knees, the mercenary rammed his fist heartlessly into the bleeding, battered Prince’s lower back, driving the Elf to the ground.

“You are weak, Princeling. You are no warrior. Perhaps living with the benefit of your father’s ill begotten riches has made you soft,” Ramlin taunted, circling his quarry.

Legolas did not try to rise, though he lifted his head from the ground, shook his blood matted and tangled flaxen hair from his eyes to glare at the mercenary, and retorted in a voice rough from the abuse of his throat, “Warriors fight with fealty. What comparison can be made when I am bound, weaponless and you have fidelity for none but riches?”

Incensed at the Elf’s maddening response, the mercenary tackled the Prince, slamming the smaller figure into the leaf-strewn dirt as he straddled Legolas’ chest. Panting heavily, unable to breathe, and ostensibly lightheaded from both this and the blood loss, the archer’s eyes were closed in misery. “Don’t die on me yet, pretty one. Not until we have had the chance to finish what we started the other day.”

_I need this. This is what Ament and I have wanted all along. The Elf Prince will die. I will have him, and then he will die._ Ramlin’s growing excitement mirrored his growing arousal.

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Legolas strove to hide his increasing panic: as much as the circumstances were similar to the day before, there was no Strider to aid him, and the Elf held no optimism that the other mercenaries would find him before Ramlin had tortured him, excruciatingly slowly. His newly injured leg had become numb and his body ached with the pain of repeated beatings. However, the Elda’s thoughts were not on his own safety but for Strider’s; moreover, Legolas feared that with him and his human companion dead, there would be no warning to Eryn Galen of the coming danger Ament had planned, whatever plans these were. _I have to find a way out of this. I will not die like this, not with my father and Eryn Galen in peril, not with Strider’s safety unsure, and not at the hands of this madman._

Yet, the Elf could not seem to gather his wayward limbs as he pulled together his errant thoughts: too much had been inflicted upon him with too little time for recuperation. Ramlin’s gaze was filled with his lusty, destructive appetite, and its only whetting would be Legolas, ravaged, ruined, and dying. Mercilessly, the foul human twisted the leash wrapped about the archer’s wrists, yanking Legolas onto his side and then onto his stomach as the mercenary lifted himself from astride the Elf’s chest, sitting on his captive’s back. Legolas was face down in the carpet of leaves, twigs, and other forest debris, eyes still shut fast in his concentration to escape his terrifying predicament.

“Too bad I’ve not my pack with me. I have many toys I would have wished you to see.” Ramlin’s fingers dug into the Elf’s maltreated body, across the smooth but bruised back and over his cracked ribs, the human’s nails biting Legolas’ flesh carelessly. He leant forward from his perch atop his captive’s lower back, murmuring into the Prince’s ear huskily, “Do not worry, Elfling, the most important toy I have remembered.” Scraping his nails across the black-mottled, ivory skin once more, Ramlin scooted himself from his position, making the focus of his annihilation available. Hooking his fingers under the fabric of the Elf’s leggings, the mercenary jerked downwards, exposing the white flesh to the cool, dank air of the forest.

Legolas shuddered in recollection of past events and fear of future ones. _No, not like this. Not Ramlin. I cannot die this way._ Picking his weary head from the ground, Legolas sought something, anything, hoping to find a rock, a sharp stick, whatever he could use to stop the unfolding events that threatened to drag him into hopelessness.

The sensation of the fetid human’s hands running over his flesh panicked the Elf into renewed struggle. He kicked uselessly outwards while rearing up, his futile efforts rewarded with another cruel punch to his ill-treated kidneys. He did not stop struggling. Ramlin paused in his pawing, and Legolas could hear the man’s heavy breathing in conjunction with the unlacing of his trousers. Fraught with horror, the Elf continued his search for a suitable weapon even as he willed his tired body to move, to fight. Abruptly, Legolas’ efforts were brought to a halt when Ramlin laid himself over the Elf, pressing the captive’s body harshly to the ground, the air from his lungs, and the man’s desire against his backside.

“Do not fight it. I will destroy you either way, Thranduilion. You could well enjoy your last moments,” Ramlin goaded, knowing that the Elf would do no such thing.

Legolas did not bother to reply but writhed under the heaviness, trying to free himself and keep himself aware. The lack of air was taking its toll on the archer’s already faint disposition. As sudden as it had come, the weight was lifted, and Ramlin held the Prince’s hips in his hands, lifting the Elda by the waist. Heaving Legolas backwards as he thrust himself forwards, the mercenary moaned in satisfaction while the Elf bit his already bloodied lip to keep from screaming in utter agony. Overcome with pain, Legolas temporarily forgot his oath to himself to live through this tragedy, to see Ramlin dead, and his home, father, and Strider safe. At the moment, all Legolas wanted was respite from these dire circumstances, and he found himself despondent, almost desiring the gray haze that began to drift over his consciousness.

_Not like this, please, Legolas,_ he beseeched himself, _do not die like this._ As the man’s unrelenting pace shimmied his weakened form, the Elf forced his slackening body into action, trying to pull away from the mercenary by plowing his hands into the soft dirt in front of him for leverage as he attempted to haul his hips from Ramlin’s meaty grasp.

Clutching Legolas’ hair and snatching the Elf’s head sharply backwards, the man quickened his tempo. Legolas’ hands grappled to find purchase on the forest floor but instead found an even greater ally. Above the groans of the human behind him, using him, and the victory song of the tainted trees, ecstatic to see the Elf taken, and even the untainted trees’ woeful song, Legolas could hear a single voice that seemed to emanate from within him, though the voice was not his. _The arrow lies to the left, Legolas. Reach to the left._ Unable to look down to see, the Prince trusted the advice instinctively, recognizing it as friend through the veil of abhorrence and torment that flooded his mind. Ramlin began wheezing, his peak near, while the Elda fumbled through the branches, leaves, and soil to his left in search of the arrow he had pulled from his leg earlier, his only weapon then and his only chance now. His long, white fingers finally wrapped themselves around the blood-slicked shaft of the arrow.

Mightily, Ramlin snarled his climax, the final thrust of his body occurring concomitantly with his releasing Legolas’ tresses and both Elf and mercenary falling to the ground in an entangled heap. The man had defiled him but it did not matter to Legolas. _He has taken nothing of importance, not when so many others are at stake,_ the Prince of Eryn Galen declared, using the last of his waning awareness to roll to his side, effectively rolling the entranced mercenary off him. Not bothering to stand, Legolas enveloped the arrow between his two hands, holding onto the shaft, arrowhead pointed towards the mercenary, who quivered, eyes closed in his completed rapture and obviously not thinking that the wounded Prince could attack him.

Throwing himself forward with all his capacity, Legolas watched impassively as the arrow broke the skin on the man’s throat before it broke through the other side. The rich red blood spilled from the wound. Ramlin opened his eyes, his face lit with shock and his mouth sputtering the dark liquid of his final moments over his chin in rivulets that met with the sanguine fluid pouring from his pierced throat. The mercenary reached his hand out as if grab the Elf before him but Legolas moved backwards in agony, easily evading his rapist’s grasp. Finally, when no more blood ran from the wound, Ramlin’s eyes lost their light, his body ceased its twitching, and he fell back, as limp and bloodied as his spent member. The Prince merely watched, desiring to be sure that the mercenary’s ecstasy at the Wood-Elf’s expense was his last.

Black tinged Legolas’ vision. The immediate danger may have been resolved but his task was not over, so after finding a dagger in Ramlin’s boot, the shaking Elf pulled himself to his feet. _Strider. I must get Strider._ Yanking his leggings up and ignoring the desolation that ate away at his steadfastness to find his human benefactor, the Prince stumbled away from the clearing, his mind cluttered with unchecked fear and his heart breaking with the loss of his innocence. _Ada. Eryn Galen. Strider. I must move. I’ve no time for despair._ He cut his binds as he walked. His legs quaking and his lower body aching in its abused state, Legolas put the rising sun to his back, hoping he was traveling in the right direction as he began to sprint recklessly back to the encampment, to Strider.

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Tirn watched Elladan stroke his brother’s hair helplessly. They had slowed their gallop into a trot when Elrohir had begun to thrash in his twin’s arms, flailing his limbs, and muttering to himself. Neither Elf had been able to ascertain what Elrohir had been saying but both listened intently anyway, afraid to miss an important bit of information that the sleeping Noldo may give them. Not able to take the silence any longer, Tirn asked, “The sun rises. Do you think we are too late?” Elladan did not answer but acknowledged the sentry’s question with a morose frown.

“...left, Legolas. Reach to the left.”

The two sentient Elves started at the sudden clarity of Elrohir’s ramblings, and both nearly jumped from their skins when the slumbering Elf suddenly awoke, trying to bring himself to a sitting position in the awkward space left on Elladan’s overburdened horse. “Hold, brother,” Elladan ordered gently, “Be still a moment.”

Elrohir either did not hear his twin or did not care to acquiesce, for he sat upright, glancing wildly about him. “What has happened?”

“You were sleeping, muindor, be still, please, else you will knock us...”

“Where is Legolas?” Elrohir interrupted as he fell gracefully from the moving steed, while his companions reigned in their mounts in confused exasperation, dismounting, also.

“Legolas? We know not, Lord Elrohir.”

“We have to reach him before he reaches their camp. He is grievously injured. He will not survive long, though he tries to return for Estel. If he returns to their camp they may both be lost to us.” The Elven Lord climbed atop his horse, not waiting for his brother and the Mirkwood guard to do so also ere he kicked his horse into motion, making towards the rising sun in the east.

With only a moment’s pause to glare at the receding, inscrutable figure leaving them behind, Tirn and Elladan remounted, shooting each other a shared look of vexation before following suit.

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“Ament, look.” Doran stood still, his hand outstretched, pointing to a clearing just beyond their current position. Astonishment and bereavement, it seemed to Ament, painted the mercenary’s bearded visage.

Lacking Doran’s height, Ament could not see over the tall underbrush of thistles that blocked him from seeing what his lackey saw: he strode through it, heedless of the pricks of the thorns. The sight that met him drove him to his knees.

Ramlin lay in a pool of his own blood, the fletching of Doran’s arrow barely visible above his brother’s throat as the shaft had been pushed so deeply in the flesh that the greater part of it laid on the opposite side of the wound’s origin. Ramlin’s mouth lay open, another pool of blood within, and his eyes were unfocused. Little else could be seen in the clearing, save for trampled scrub and his brother’s footprints.

_The Elf has done this. Once again, the royalty of Mirkwood has robbed me of my family._

In some sane part of Ament’s mind, a part whose advice was not often regarded anymore, the leader realized he had been looking for his sibling with the full intention of killing him for his insolence; however, now that the choice had been taken from him, now that the Elf was responsible, Ament’s crazed ire knew no bounds. He leapt up from his knees, turning from the gory view to Doran, who stared, still standing quietly, his blond hair falling forwards as he wiped the tears from his dirtied face.

“They will pay, Doran. We will make them all pay. If it takes the rest of our lives.” The mercenary nodded absently, following behind his leader as he searched for the path the fleeing Prince had taken. Ament exuded intense hatred, his desire for revenge again taking hold over him, forcing him from his grief as it had long ago.

_The Elf will pay. As will all of them._

 


	15. Chapter 15

“He is heading back towards the camp,” the leader discerned cannily, his shrewd gaze measuring the path of the sun against their current whereabouts.

“Why?” Doran stopped short, his eyes never leaving the telltale sign that the Prince had traversed this way: a small, blood-spattered indentation in the ground.

Ruminating on this very quandary, Ament merely shook his head, “Perhaps he goes after the goblet, though he cannot hope to find it without knowing where it is. I do not believe he would go back for a horse; it would not be worth it to him to take such a chance when he is so close to freedom.” They continued their tracking silently.

_Perhaps he goes back for Strider._

Despite his inclination to trust the healer in Fulton, and since that night, Ament could not shake the disquieting conclusion to which Doran’s retelling of the events at the time of the Elf’s escape led him. _I have been too yielding. The story of his parents’ death at the hands of Elves swayed my thinking._ Cogently pondering this twist in allegiance, the leader could not reconcile Strider’s story with his actions. _Strider has betrayed me. He told the Prince to run. Regardless of his intentions, his actions have made him a liability. If we do not find the Elf, Strider will die. If we do find the Elf, Strider will die once the Elf has served my purposes._ Ament would not forgive the healer’s possibly unwitting role in allowing Ramlin to die by the hands of the Prince.

“Do you think he goes back for Strider?” Doran’s query cut short Ament’s musing.

_Doran is not as stupid as he seems._

“I do not know. I can think of no other reason,” the leader conceded, shaking his bushy red head again.

_If he does go back, then he only saves us the trouble of finding him._

“We are almost to the camp,” Ament assured, “we will find out his objective soon enough, and where Strider's allegiances lie.”

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Legolas stumbled, his legs giving way under him again. _I will not make it much longer, much less to the camp,_ the Elf despaired, but then chastised himself, _My end draws near, and I welcome it._ _I am selfish to wish death now._

The sun had risen fully, and the Mirkwood forest was resplendent with the fading of the shadowed woods by the orange-red hues of the new morning. Heaving himself up once again, the Prince carried on, though he slowed his pace somewhat to accommodate his quaking limbs. Another tangled root from a Dark tree tripped the Wood-Elf, sending him sprawling out onto the ground, irritating his many wounds into a dissonant symphony of myriad aches and pains. He considered staying where he was, though only briefly, for the sound of footsteps reached his sensitive ears and the Prince knew the mercenaries were looking for him still and were not far behind.

_It may be better for them to catch me. At least then, I will make it to the camp._

Discarding the resigned thought immediately, Legolas trod onwards, attempting vigilantly to maintain his distance between the coming mercenaries and himself. Ramlin had carried no weapons with him when he had come to check on Meika, Strider, and Legolas, save the dagger the Wood-Elf now held, and the blade that Ramlin had slain Meika with, so Legolas was ill equipped to take on the advancing humans, especially in his current condition. Licking his bloodied but dry lips, the Prince staggered once more, this time maintaining his balance through sheer will. It was then that he heard the voices.

“Do not be a fool, Jalian. Do you really think that Ament will share his good fortune with you once he has what he wants? You cannot be so blind.”

_Strider. He is alive, thank Ilúvatar. Finally, I have reached the camp._ The Elf did not hear Jalian’s response, for the footsteps behind him grew louder as they fell more quickly, their pace increasing. _They have seen me. They are almost upon me._ Legolas ran incautiously towards the campsite, his determination to remove the healer from the mercenaries’ grasp propelling him to use the last of his effort to do so. A flying arrow hit the tree beside him; the Elf spared a glance to the rear to see Ament notching another arrow. _At least his aim is not as accurate as Doran’s._

“Jalian! The Elf is coming towards you!” Ament’s cry reverberated through the woods, causing several startled birds to screech their displeasure as they took to the sky from their perches in the trees.

Another arrow flew past Legolas, landing harmlessly in the brush several feet before him, evincing to the Prince that Doran was not actually trying to strike the Elf with a projectile, but merely trying to slow him down. Lacking any other course, and knowing he could not outrun the mercenaries, or their arrows, for much longer, the Wood-Elf leapt into the nearest untainted tree, his blood drenched boot slipping on the bark ere he hauled himself securely onto the branch. He did not cease his flight, though, and climbed carefully across the limb into another untainted tree nearby. _Picking through the trees will slow me down._

“He has taken to the trees, Jalian, watch for him above!” The warning came from beneath the Elf.

_They know my destination is the camp._ Less than a hundred yards of intertwined trees lay between him and the campsite. _I will never reach Strider before Ament and Doran._ He still did not cease his flight; his wounds throbbed horribly with each movement and his consciousness was quickly leaving him. _Wood-Elves do not fall from trees, Legolas,_ he reprimanded himself. _Stay alert. There must be a way._

“Where, Ament? I do not see it,” Jalian complained nervously. Legolas could see the mercenary through the leafy bough of the tree on which he bolted. As he grew closer to the clearing, he realized that Ament and Doran were waiting on its edge, huffing from their long dash.

“I think I know what will make him come out. Get Strider,” Ament ordered Jalian as he handed his bow to Doran, commanding him fiercely, “Do not shoot unless absolutely necessary. I still want him alive.”

Legolas advanced painstakingly to a tree adjacent to the clearing via a maze of limbs, trying to avoid any that could not or would not hold him. His step faltered when Strider appeared beside Doran and Ament. The man was pale and blood stained his tunic: a wad of linen was tightly wrapped against his middle, but the healer stood proudly, defiantly. What gave the Prince pause, however, was the knife Ament held to the young healer’s throat while Jalian detained him.

“Come back for your friend, have you, Elfling?” Underlying Ament’s taunts was the beginning of a threat: the Prince understood the mercenary’s implication before he continued. “Come out, now, or I will demonstrate to Strider how you killed my brother.”

_He knows Strider aided me. Of course. Why else would I return to camp, if not for him? I do not know where the goblet lies. Ament does not bluff, and I will not leave Strider to his death._

Without waiting for a reply, Ament removed the blade at his captive’s throat as he elbowed the healer in his wounded side harshly. Although it must have aggrieved the human greatly, Strider did not make a sound as he bent slightly forward before Jalian pulled him back upright. “Come down, now.” With a quick thrust, Ament had buried the dagger in the flesh of Strider’s upper arm, the hilt sticking oddly out from his leather overcoat. The healer grunted softly in pain as the leader cautioned, “Do not make me wait.”

The Prince’s heart ached watching the young healer’s agony. With Ramlin gone, Legolas reasoned that he had little to fear from the men concerning his personal safety except his eventual death, which would come regardless, given his dismal health and sorrow at the moment. _If he could escape, my father could be warned of Ament’s deranged plans, whatever they might truly be._ Thinking quickly, Legolas could find optimism only in the human’s flight, a feat that he could not himself achieve with naught but a dagger. Knowing that his body was close to collapse, the Prince concluded, _My life is forfeit whether I surrender or flee, but Strider has a chance, and I cannot let Ament kill him when there is still a chance for us to stop their plan._ Legolas fingered the knife he held, and then hastily shoved the blade within his soiled boot, praying the blood loss had not made him irrational in his decision: _Please do not let this become an error that will cost us both our lives._

“I had planned to let Strider live for now, but fine, Princeling,” Ament goaded, savagely yanking the blade free from the healer’s arm, eliciting another quiet groan of pain from the young human. “I guess his fate does not concern you.”

The leader had not even lifted the blade to Strider’s throat before Legolas dropped from a tree only a few feet away, surprising the humans by his abrupt action and closeness to them. Unable to take the further trauma to his wounded legs, the Elf fell onto his hands and knees, his bare, bloody chest roiling with the endeavor to breathe through the excruciating agony radiating throughout his body. He said nothing but sat back on his heels, waiting for the men to take him. Under different circumstances, and had he the strength, the Elf would have laughed at the astonished looks on the mercenaries’ faces. Strider, he noted, appeared both incredibly stunned and concerned.

“If you move, he dies.” Ament held the dagger again at the healer’s throat ere he turned to Doran, “Tie him.” The mercenary darted back to the camp to find rope, and upon his return, Legolas patiently allowed the man to wind the rope around his already bleeding, chafed wrists into tight binds, expecting he would likely die in them.

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Observing the blood drenched body of the Wood-Elf, Aragorn worried, _It is a wonder he has any left to flow through his veins._ He could not yet tell the extent to which the Elf was injured but from what he could see, it would take much to keep the Prince among the living. _What possessed you to come back, Legolas?_ But the Ranger knew the answer: the Elf had come back for him. _He shows more valor than I have these past days._ When Doran had tied the Elf, hefted the fair creature to his feet, and then dragged him back into the clearing, Ament faced Strider, a mad, gleeful expression belying the usual scowl of his demeanor.

“You should have stayed in Fulton, Strider. I promised you, become a liability and die. Prove your worth by keeping the Elf alive, or you will expire with him.”

The Ranger said nothing as he was pushed into the camp, paying no attention to the throb in his limb. With a mighty shove, Jalian knocked Aragorn to his knees on the ground beside the prone Elf. From the closer vantage point, the healer could see the Prince’s battered body too well. The once blond hair was stained red with blood, his fair face was discolored various shades of black from bruises, as were his torso, ribs, and back. What alarmed Aragorn most was the Elf’s blood-soaked leggings and boot. The arrow wound had been hastily bandaged, stopping most of the hemorrhaging, but the race through the forest had not allowed the creature’s Elven healing to close the wound and it bled still.

_Sweet Eru, my friend, how have you made it this far?_ As though he had heard the Ranger’s inquiry, Legolas rolled his head towards Aragorn, opening his blackened eyes ere his drooping eyelids snapped shut when he unexpectedly began to shudder violently with a coughing spell. He did not open his eyes for a second time, yet, his breathing returned to some semblance of normalcy, and the Wood-Elf had the peaceful look of unconsciousness.

“How long will he live, Strider?” Ament still held his bloody dagger in hand as he loomed over the Elf and healer, peering anxiously down at the captive.

“I do not know. Untie me or I can do nothing for him,” the Ranger demanded.

With his blade, the leader cut the ropes at Aragorn’s wrists, and immediately the healer reached for his satchel, stopping short only when Ament growled, pointing the dagger at the Ranger. “Do not test me. You are expendable. I do not care what role you have played in the Elf’s escape. If you try it again, I will see to it that you plead for death before I grant it to you, understood?” Estel did not answer, but snatched the bag in hand, rapidly wrapping a length of linen around his newly acquired wound so that it would not interfere with his tending the Elda. “How long, Strider? You said it would kill him. How long does he have?”

At first, the healer was not sure which injury or conversation the leader referred to – until he remembered Ament’s threat to kill him as Legolas killed Ramlin. _Legolas has slain Ramlin, but what happened before this? Please, Valar, no,_ the Ranger prayed, _let Ramlin not have abused him._

Aloud he asked, though he dreaded the answer, “What will kill him?’

Ament’s response was snide, insane giggling that simultaneously impelled within the healer the forceful yearning to relieve the mercenary of his sniggering head and the overwhelming desire to weep for the immortal. “My idiot brother finally had his fill of your Elf friend.” His laughter dying all of a sudden, the leader declared, “Mirkwood royalty has again stolen my family from me. I will have my compensation for their deaths, with the Princeling here as bait.”

Aragorn turned his attention from the leader back to the Elf before him. _Ament has lost whatever sanity he held. He intended to kill Ramlin himself. Ramlin is dead and Legolas fades. This could not possibly become any worse._

The mercenary barked, “How long will he live?”

“I do not know. I have never seen an Elf fall into despair before, though it may take days, even weeks yet.”

“Good, good. We’ve time aplenty.” Ament shouted across the clearing, “Jalian, guard these two while Doran and I look for the goblet.” The leader bent down to wipe the blood, Aragorn’s blood, from his blade onto the grass nearby before crossing to Doran. Jalian complied, leaving the conversation he and Doran had been holding to sit close to the exhausted Elf and sorrowful healer.

Proffering a flask of water, the mercenary commented apathetically, “It will live?”

Unable to endure Jalian’s deprecating attitude towards the Prince any longer, Aragorn seized the bladder and spat, “ _Its_ name is Legolas, and he is no doubt several centuries your senior, at least, and the heir to the throne of Eryn Galen. You should have more respect, human.”

Holding enough conscience to appear shamefaced, Jalian responded childishly, watching the healer rip away the cloth from the Elf’s thigh to tend his arrow wound, “You’re human, too, Strider.”

Aragorn disregarded him, intent on his toil. _The arrow has sliced deep into the flesh but I do not think it will be fatal... if he has not already lost too much blood. It is the wounds I cannot see to that I fear may be his undoing._ Rummaging through his belongings, the healer selected from his dwindling supply of herbs what he knew would stop the life giving fluid that seeped from the Elf’s thigh. After washing the injury clean and applying a thin paste of his mixture to the torn flesh, the Ranger bound bandages securely about Legolas’ thigh, wishing he had a needle with which to sew the gash shut. Next, he rebandaged the Elf’s other leg, where, Strider noticed thankfully, the marks made by the hunting trap were reopened but no longer bleeding.

Having seen to the most egregious of his charge’s wounds, Strider ran his trained hands over the Prince’s body carefully, looking for breaks or hidden injuries. Finding none that needed urgent consideration, the Ranger took his time in cleaning Legolas’ bloodied face and torso before smoothing another paste over the contused flesh and then dribbling water between the Elf’s parched lips. He did not want to be removed from the Elf’s presence; he wanted the Prince to see him, not his captors, upon his awakening, and found whatever task he could to make it appear as if he were tending the Prince.

_Please, Legolas, wake. I swear to you I will see you out of this alive, no matter what it takes._

Miserable, the Ranger sat beside Legolas in the morning sun, contemplating the Elf’s return and the torment the archer had undergone. Ament was occupied, paying no heed to his idleness. _The culpability is mine. I should have forced him to leave when he chose to stay for his father. I should never have kept him here in the first place. What have I done?_ Pinching the bridge of his nose harshly, the young healer fought back the surge of tears that threatened to fall. _He came back for me, I am certain. I have done naught but facilitated his suffering and yet he returned to aid me. He handed himself back into captivity to save me._ He no longer cared about maintaining his sham; it was useless as a means to keep him alive, and even this he no longer cared about as long as the Prince escaped. Instead, the Ranger tried to withhold his emotion for Legolas, for should the Elf awaken, Aragorn knew he would need his wits about him to get the Prince out of this mayhem.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Someone has been poisoned,” Elladan decided, poking through a pile of half crushed herbs that appeared to have been dumped onto the forest floor. They had followed the tracks, spurring their tired horses beyond their endurance to reach Estel and Legolas before Elrohir’s prophecy was fulfilled. However, when they had come across the abandoned campsite, all had agreed to allow their mounts to rest and to use the opportunity to investigate. Even so, the three Elves hurried their inspection, eager to be on their way.

“What do you mean?” Tirn stood over the Imladrian Lord’s shoulder, trying to determine what had inspired Elladan’s conclusion. _They are skilled in much that I would learn._

“These herbs are used to draw poison from a wound and help the body expel them,” the elder twin explained, “and, of course, with the dead spider bodies lying about it is an obvious conclusion.”

Elrohir joined his brother and the Silvan sentry, stepping over a shriveling spider carcass along his way. “This is Estel’s work. He used every herb he carries that would have any effect. He has never treated a spider wound, it would seem.”

Tirn could contain his suspicion no longer, his worry having been riled to extreme heights by the two Lords seemingly calm bearing and Elrohir’s previous revelations. He asked ere he could convince his tongue to follow the counsel of his mind instead of the concerns of his heart, “Why would your brother be abetting the men who took the Prince?”

Elladan stood, and the twins faced Tirn in unison, their identical expressions equally affronted but similarly sympathetic. “I assure you that he is not aiding these men willingly. There is much of this we do not know, Tirn,” Elladan protested.

The sentry attempted to apologize but was interrupted by Elrohir. “Nay, Elladan. He is right to ask this... but you are right, also. There is much hidden from us.”

“You know more than you say, muindor. What information do you hold from us?” Elrohir’s qualms about his brother’s silence were clear in his stern manner.

Tirn watched the exchange uneasily although he, too, desired to hear the unforthcoming tidings Elrohir kept. _Ai Valar, I did not mean to start a family dispute._

Sighing wretchedly, the reluctant visionary shook his head as he walked to his horse, admitting, “I saw briefly what was happening. I have seen into Legolas’ thoughts.” He paused, addressing Tirn pointedly, “He trusts Estel. He knows of our brother’s identity but the mercenaries do not. Why they have chosen him as their captive, how Estel became involved, and why they have not made it to safety I do not know. I have only seen the present, not the future. I do know that our brother would not allow the Prince to be harmed if he could stop it.”

“Mercenaries?” Elladan queried, and he and Tirn trailed Elrohir to their mounts.

“Yes. I did not see the entirety of their aims.” Elrohir’s countenance was grave as he spoke, again directing his explanation to the sentry, “Legolas fled. He was chased through the woods while he was dangerously injured and could not escape his pursuer.” Rubbing his aching head lightly, he continued quietly, his own distress at witnessing the missing Prince’s ordeal causing his typically beautiful voice to rasp with emotion, “I saw Legolas being abused for one of his captor’s pleasure.”

Tirn clutched his steed’s mane, twisting it between his fingers, not noticing the mount nickering softly in reprimand. _No. It cannot be, not our mirthful Prince._

“He is alive?” Elladan and Elrohir barely heard the quietly whispered question.

Stepping forward and tenderly removing Tirn’s hands from his horse’s tangled tresses, Elrohir confessed ruefully, “He slew his attacker and fled more pursuers. He intended to return to the camp for Estel. His whereabouts and well-being I know nothing of now. I am sorry.”

“But you said if he made it back to camp then they were likely lost to us. We cannot hope to reach him in time. What now?”

Elrohir had no answer for this; he hung his head unhappily. His twin, however, had assurance for them all, pronouncing impassionedly, “We can always hope. And if we are too late, then we will not let their deaths go without reprisal.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_If the fool farmer has lied, I will hunt him down, leisurely killing him and everyone he knows._ For over two hours since recapturing the Elf, Ament and Doran had searched the trees in the clearing. _I cannot have misunderstood him. This has to be the place of which he spoke._

When the leader had first heard about the goblet he had dismissed it as a mere legend, a tale that drunkards would pass the time wishing to obtain, telling what they would do with their immortality, and therefore he never gave the artifact but fleeting fancy. His doubt had been replaced with fervid belief when Ramlin had returned from visiting Doran in Fulton with rumors that a farmer there claimed to know the location of Melfren’s fabled goblet.

“I can find no hollow trunk, Ament. Have you any luck?”

“None yet, Doran. We will find it,” Ament assured.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

Had not Ament desperately needed the archer’s help, and had he not been probing this very issue himself, the leader would have gladly buried his sword in the man’s belly, so great was his aggravation. _No, that would not do. I seem to be running short of mindless thugs these days._

“Do you see the trees up ahead, at the edge of the clearing, where the many trunks twist together and their boughs are intertwined, and their limbs knotted together?” Doran nodded. “The farmer told of these trees, saying that the goblet was two days travel due east of the copse of trees we passed at the river, and hidden in the hollow of a tree on the edge of this clearing, where these misshaped trees lie. I am sure that this is the place.”

“Perhaps he meant that the goblet was hidden within the disfigured trees themselves,” Doran offered hopefully.

_Again, Doran surprises me with his intellect. Why he was ever Ramlin’s friend I cannot surmise._

“Perhaps. Good thinking, Doran. Meika had a hatchet, did he not? Go fetch it.” Without waiting for the mercenary to return, the leader stalked to the glade’s periphery, analyzing the warped trunks, tapping them in various places, listening for the obvious sound of a hollowed trunk. Mirkwood was filled with malformed trees, especially this far south, but none had he seen in his years in Laketown or the journey here were as twisted or numerous in their shared deformity as these.

_This must be the place. I count at least seven trees._ Ament’s eye fell on an aperture between two of the trunks. _Mayhap it is in the hollow between the trees, and not within them._ Hatchet in hand, Doran returned, glaring trenchantly back at Jalian, Strider, and the Elf.

“What is it?” Ament eyed Jalian, who turned away at his leader's attention.

“Nothing,” the blond mercenary replied promptly. His eyebrows shooting up in further suspicion, Ament glared at Doran, who conceded, “Strider and Jalian were talking but I know not of what.”

“It does not matter, Doran. Jalian does not share our desire to seek retribution. He is dispensable, as is Strider. You will help me avenge Ramlin’s death, will you not?”

“Of course, Ament. Ramlin was a good friend to me,” the tall archer replied zealously, his face haggard with grief and rage.

_My idiot brother serves me even in death. It is well that the Elf killed him, and I did not have to, else Doran would meet his end sooner than later for he would surely not be so accommodating otherwise._

“Here, do you see this gap? Cut the trees so that we can see what lies between the trunks,” Ament commanded, standing back to give the mercenary room to work.

Splinters of wood flew through the cool air, landing haphazardly along the grassy earthen floor of the forest. Ament paid them no mind, for his mind focused only on the days ahead, the work to be done to ensure that his plan’s execution went flawlessly, unlike its shaky beginnings. _Thranduil’s wealth will be mine. He cannot be so callous as to allow his only son to live in agony when his riches would easily buy his freedom. My revenge has already been exacted. Ramlin has had his fun, the Elf Prince will die from Ramlin’s handling, but before he does, I will have an immortal life with which to enjoy Mirkwood’s treasures, and a goblet that will ensure that I will never lose another life dear to me again._ Stifling the urge to laugh, an impulse that was becoming a constant battle within the leader’s mind, Ament stared at the sun, thinking that soon he would no longer be occupied with its daily journey, for he would see so many noontimes after today that time would no longer hold any authority over him. The cessation of Doran’s chopping drew the mercenary from his thoughts.

“Ament,” Doran shouted excitedly, “the trees twist around an open space. I can see it.”

Hastily, the leader moved behind the archer, peering into the gloom within the revealed gap, following Doran’s pointed finger to a tarnished object that lay within the tree’s confines. _The goblet. Nothing can stop me now._

 


	16. Chapter 16

_The murky forest had scared the young Elfling. He had not yet reached his majority, and though he had spent his free time cavorting amongst the trees close to Eryn Galen’s stronghold, he had not ventured so far into the forest – not alone. The childish taunts of his friends had spurred the Elfling Prince into accepting their dare, and he had taken off into the woods, evading the ever-watchful eyes of his guards, and running swiftly to grab the fruit from the apple trees that lay far beyond the safety of his father’s halls. The journey there had been uneventful, and so Legolas had walked his way back home overconfidently, occasionally stopping in innocent curiosity to inspect a leaf, a flower, or listen to the sweet calling of the woodland birds._

_He had ambled for much longer than he had supposed it would take him to return, and his realization that the late afternoon was quickly turning to sundown petrified him. He searched his surroundings for familiar landmarks that would guide him back home. Placing his small hand on random trees, Legolas tried to listen to the lifesong of the woods; though it comforted him to hear the familiar beauty of his home, lack of experience hindered the Elfling from tuning in to the oeuvre’s many layers, and therefore he could not discern whether he had come this way earlier. With escalating panic, the Prince wandered through the woods, consoling himself with the knowledge that he had likely already been missed and his sentries would locate him._

_His father would later soothe him that should he get lost in the woods that Ada would always find him. But his father had not found him that time. His youthful exuberance and fear borne energy had led him farther away from the palace than he had ever traveled, and it had been his faithful sentry Tirn who had discovered the sobbing, frightened child huddled against the soothing trunk of an old oak tree in the moonless night._

“ _Prince Legolas,” the sentry whispered, trying not to startle the young one. Tirn had only recently joined the Eryn Galen palace guards in the footsteps of his father and it had been his watch on which the Prince had become lost. “Your Majesty, come.” He made as though to grab the Elfling, to carry the child home, but decorum prevented him._

_Legolas remembered that his sentry had fluttered about him, as though Tirn feared the scared child would shatter, but the Prince had not wanted a stately, impassive guard; no, the Elfling had wanted comfort. He threw himself into the sentry’s arms. Tirn did not shirk the desperate, trembling child but held him tightly, stroking the blond tresses._

“ _Come, your Majesty. You are safe, now, I promise.” Picking Legolas up, the sentry had carried him home, swearing an oath to mollify him that in his many years the Prince of Eryn Galen had never forgotten, but had never considered might be tested: “If you are ever lost, my Prince, just be still and I will find you, wherever you have strayed. I promise; I will keep you safe.”_

_Tirn’s calming hold abruptly tightened, the arms bearing down on the Elfling’s body with force, and Legolas opened his eyes to find he was lying on his stomach, his face in the soft grass of a clearing, and the pressure above him ridiculing maliciously, “Do not fight it. I will destroy you either way, Thranduilion. You could well enjoy your last moments.”_

_In agonizing remembrance, Legolas saw he was no longer a child, though his fear had not abated. He closed his eyes. The next few moments the Elf knew well; they smoldered in his memories, stealing his breath from him, and creating a haze of despair to cloud his desire to live. He felt the mercenary grab him._

“ _Just be still, and I will find you.” The memorable voice assured Legolas, the hands on his person disappeared, and the archer opened his eyes._

_Strider knelt beside him, softly patting his face, mouthing words the Prince could not hear. Jalian glanced at him anxiously before peering across the clearing._

“Legolas?"

His eyes were open but unfocused, and with a blink, the Prince’s gaze fixed on the healer beside him as his lungs gasped for air. Strider’s immense relief at seeing the Elf awakened and breathing caused the human to sigh profoundly. “Valar, Legolas, you have frightened me."

The archer could not yet find his voice. He was unsure whether he dreamt still. Unintentionally ignoring Strider, the immortal pondered his outlandish reverie in misery. _I am as lost in my waking as in my dreaming. They are naught but fancies my mind has concocted to pacify me. No one will find us, and if we remain, we only welcome our deaths._

“Legolas. Legolas?” The healer’s voice was becoming more insistent, more worried, and the Elf finally turned his attention to the human.

Hoarsely, he replied, his beaten brow knotting in the effort to speak, “I am here, Strider.”

Letting loose a lengthy breath, the healer murmured, “I wish that you were not here, my friend.” Rubbing his own forehead wearily, Strider explained, “You had ceased to breathe. I thought I had lost you to grief.”

_You almost did._

“I am here. We are not parted yet.” Legolas did not contemplate his own words, and did not consider the effect his proclamation would have on the healer.

_He must flee. Eryn Galen must be warned. Father must be told._

“No, Legolas. Speak not such thoughts! You will not leave me at all! I will not let you...” The healer stopped his livid tirade, his face falling in tandem with his voice. “I am sorry.” Strider appeared to have much more to say to the Prince but the empty words would not come, so instead the young healer clasped the Elf’s bicep reassuringly, careful not to agitate any of the Prince’s many bruises and wounds.

_He looks as though he may cry,_ Legolas thought. _He is no more than a child lost in the woods, too. I welcome the company._

“Legolas?” the Elda’s eyes snapped open: he had not been aware they were closed. “Try to stay awake. You need water, and food. I can give you a draught for the pain.” The healer leant forward, knowing the Elf could hear his quiet muttering while the mercenary beside them would have trouble understanding his softly spoken words, “Jalian says they have found the goblet, though they cannot yet reach it. We will escape.”

Shaking his head slightly, Legolas responded in Sindarin, "Run, my friend. You must tell my father of my death.”

“You will not die. Do not die, Legolas,” the healer implored vehemently, speaking in Elvish as well. “I will not leave without you. We will go together or not at all. We will escape."

_The human is too obstinate for his own good... for our own good, and for Eryn Galen’s. He must leave._

“How?” Jalian was watching the healer and Elf with great interest, his head cocked quizzically to one side, observing unabashedly, albeit not comprehending their conversation in Sindarin. “How will we escape?”

“I do not know but I give you my word,” Strider admitted humbly, evading the archer’s eyes by searching through his satchel, "we will find a way out of this.” Water flask in hand, the healer raised Legolas’ head tenderly, dribbling the water slowly into the Elf’s mouth so as not to choke him.

From the sun’s position overhead, the immortal could tell that he had been unconscious for several hours. He could hear the wailing trees the men were chopping and smell the dank, earthy scent of the leaves and ground on which he laid. Too exhausted to argue further, the Prince closed his eyes and considered the best way for Strider to flee. _He will not last long in the forest alone if he has no weapons. He has not the benefit of the trees to guide him, nor the knowledge of the Dark beasts that roam these woods, but we would never reach my father’s halls if I accompany him. I am too injured to continue._ Legolas berated himself sadistically, _Too injured? And so you would leave a child to tend your duties as Prince while you lay here, waiting to die?_ Combating the longing to weep, the voice instilled in him through his training as a warrior and as royalty, a voice that likened to the tenor of his father, the King, told him unsympathetically, _You will live, and you will fight._

“Legolas?” Strider softly tapped his cheek in an attempt to wake him. “Legolas I need to bandage your leg wound with fresh linen. Would you like something for the pain?” The human’s compassionate voice contrasted the self-recrimination in the Elda’s mind.

“No,” the Elf whispered, not bothering to open his eyes.

He could feel the man unwinding the cloth around his thigh, the minute brushes of the healer’s hands inciting memories of events too recent to suppress. _It is only Strider,_ he reassured, _Ramlin is dead._ Several silent tears spilled from the immortal’s eyes, running down the sides of his face and into his blood-matted hair, while his body betrayed him by shivering each time the man touched him. _Stop this. You have no time for despair. Eryn Galen and your King are in danger._

Ere he felt Strider replace the linen, the healer apologized lachrymosely in a voice no louder than the sough of the breeze, “I am sorry. I am almost finished.”

Legolas did not have to see the man to know the healer pitied him, and that Strider knew why the Elf wept. _You are weak, Legolas. You prove Ramlin correct with your weepy capitulation to die._

Quickly, the cloth was wrapped around his leg, and his human benefactor pled with him once more in Elvish, “Please, Legolas; run with me. We will take the horses."

“No. You are not obliged to fight with me, but I will die fighting the mercenaries. I will not flee with my home and father in danger." Legolas had still not opened his eyes: he feared that the healer’s kind face would break his determination.

_I have to be strong. They must not use the goblet to harm Eryn Galen._

Forgetting to speak in the Elven dialect, Strider hissed in frustration, “It is not Mirkwood that is in danger, it is you, Legolas. Ament’s revenge on your father is complete only with your demise.” At this, the immortal finally faced his new friend, opening his inexhaustibly blue eyes to read the same resolve he held mirrored in the healer’s gray orbs.

“If not today, then some day in the future my father or I will be threatened with Ament’s plans for vengeance. Should I leave, he will have all of eternity to see his bloodthirsty revenge completed once he finds another Elf. Besides, I will die anyway, my friend, and I would rather die fighting.”

The healer sighed and shook his head, but then smiled his resignation. “I will not let you die, and we will fight together, for I will not leave you.” No pretense lay in the man’s words.

Legolas closed his eyes again, content and prepared to accept the man’s oath, but struggling against the waves trouncing his weary mind, dragging him down into the undercurrent of his horrid memories. He felt the healer shift beside him and was comforted to know that the human would stay with him. While he did not want the Adan youth to die, neither did he want to feel that he was lost in the woods, alone.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_He has endured much, and he still wishes to fight. If not for his duty to Mirkwood, I fear Legolas would not struggle against his despair._ Aragorn eased his injured arm forward to inspect it. The pain from it, the arrow wound to his forearm, and the gash to his side aggrieved him but none, he believed, was remotely fatal. _I have suffered little in comparison to the Prince, and yet I am willing to flee. Even after Ramlin’s mishandling he wishes to stay. Whatever keeps him alive, I will gladly give him. But I will not watch him die._ The Ranger contemplated his own culpability in the immortal’s torment to find himself, according to his own perceptions of the situation, the sole cause for the Elf’s continued anguish.

_We should have fled this depraved situation days ago, when Legolas was healthy enough to run, and I was still trusted enough to flee unhindered._ However, Aragorn could not deny the archer’s logic. _Nevertheless, he is right, if not today, then in the future Ament will seek his retribution. He must not use the goblet; it must be destroyed. For Legolas, for Thranduil, and for all the Elves. If Legolas is willing to stay, then so too will I, even if it means our deaths. My life is the least I owe him._ Gently, the Ranger brushed the golden, bloody hair from the Elf’s forehead, sweeping his fingers kindly over the furrowed brow and whispering Elvish in a condoling tone. _We need a plan of our own. I do not even know where my weapons have been concealed. I must find something._ He couldn't just flee without taking the Elf, and he would never get far carrying the Wood-Elf, or be able to battle the mercenaries without weapons. Even should he find something, he would not be able to protect the Prince while fighting off the mercenaries.

When it was apparent the Wood-Elf slept, Jalian interrupted the Ranger’s thoughts by asking, “You’d give your life for it?”

_Valar, I had forgotten Jalian sat beside us when I spoke in Common._

Knowing the ‘it’ in question was the battered Prince lying beside him, the healer answered, “I would.” The Ranger spoke honestly: he was tired of the lies, the farce, and especially the overwhelming feelings of blame and disgrace that these acts had bestowed upon him.

“Why? He has done nothing for you.” There was no censure in Jalian’s tone; it seemed to Aragorn that the man was baffled.

_Jalian was a slave trader. It is how he gained his disfigurement, according to Ament. He thinks the Elves are but animals to be trapped and sold._

"He has just handed his life over to save mine," the Ranger argued. "And he does not deserve what Ament plans for him.”

The mercenary snorted disdainfully, “He killed Ramlin, ain’t that enough?”

Unable to contain his anger, the Ranger replied heatedly, “As well he should have. And so would you, or I, in the same situation. He had been kidnapped, beaten, ravaged, and soon he will be slaughtered for Ament’s perverse justice, and you would fault him for taking Ramlin’s life?”

_Great, Strider, anger the man who knows you and the Prince plan to fight._

The words would not stop, “He has done naught to any of you. You cannot judge the whole race of Elves by those that burned you, Jalian, and knowing they did so to flee being your chattel in the slave market only reduces your hatred of them to nonsense.”

Fully expecting the mercenary to clobber him, the Ranger was stunned to see the man rub the tufts of dark hair on his scarred head thoughtfully and exhale noisily, watching Doran hack the twisted trees steadily away from the object of their concupiscent desire for riches. “That is what Meika said. I tried to change his mind. Can’t make money being nice, I would tell him. Never would listen, that one. He just wanted the farm and family.” Jalian confronted the healer, his sad countenance reminding Aragorn that he was a man, only that, despite his many failings, and grieving for the loss of his friend. “Ramlin killed Meika, Doran told me. For wanting to free the Elf. For killing Meika, Ramlin deserved to die. But I reckon you’re right, Strider, and so was Meika.” The mercenary glanced at Legolas, who lay sleeping fitfully. “I think it’s too late, though, for any of us to turn back.”

The abrupt yell of Ament drew both their attention away from conversation, and to the travesty occurring across the clearing.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Do not cross me, Doran. I gave you an order. Now go.” Ament’s scowl had taken scandalous proportions, and his insanity glowed brighter than his wiry red hair, illuminated by the sunlight into a fiery cap of spiraling curls. He stepped close to the unmoving Doran, placing his face so that the two were nearly nose to nose. “You lied. You said you wanted to avenge Ramlin’s death.”

“I would avenge Ramlin,” the towering archer ground out between his gritted teeth, “but I should like to live to see it accomplished. I am not crawling in there. Get Jalian to do it, or send Strider, he is expendable, is he not?”

_I suppose he is right. The Elf will live for now, or so Strider claims. I’ve no need for Strider for much longer._

The leader lifted one eyebrow, and then backed up only slightly before yelling, “Jalian, bring Strider over here!” Ament noted cheerfully Doran’s pained expression at the booming scream, and then bent to inspect the hollowed area again.

The trees had twisted the space between their trunks into a conical opening, one that began wider at the bottom, where the trunks only touched those beside them, until it tapered into a warped interplay of trunks and limbs at the space’s highest point. Altogether, the hollow lay no more than a man’s height across, and was only crawling room high until its middle, where a man could possibly stand hunkered over. _The goblet must have been placed here before the trees entwined,_ Ament mused excitedly. His eyes did not stray long from the tarnished object obscured by leaves in the middle of the natural enclave. _I am close._

“Here, boss.” Jalian held the unbound Strider in front of him by the arm. Both men were confused, having only now even been close to Doran and Ament’s toils.

Ament gave the healer a snide grin. “Fetch the goblet.” He pointed to within the confines made by the trees. “It’s in there.” The healer made no move to comply. “Go, Strider, or we will all have your Elf when I am through with him.” After shooting Ament an exceedingly enraged frown, one that held such promise that a momentary streak of dread broke through the leader’s insanity-born invincibility, Strider carefully maneuvered through the hacked opening, opting to crawl forward leisurely. The suspense was irritating Ament, and so he ordered, “Quickly, Strider. Do not try my patience.”

The healer’s feet finally disappeared from view, and Ament rubbed his hands together in delight. _Idiot. No telling what traps have been set to keep the goblet safe._

A few moments later, Strider’s voice echoed out into the glade, just as the healer’s head became visible through the opening, “It is not here.”

With no effort to contain his fury, Ament did not give the healer time to extract himself from the hollow before he flew at Strider. “You lie. I saw it,” the leader accused, boxing the healer’s unprotected head with his bare hands. Ament dragged the stunned healer from the opening by his leather coat, and then promptly began to land kicks into Strider’s back, stomach, and legs, wherever he could. “You lie. Where is it?”

Jalian intervened, grabbing Ament by the shoulder to yank him away from the felled healer. “Stop, Ament. Let him speak.” The leader threw his minion’s hands from his back but did not advance on the healer again.

“Speak then,” he growled. “What did you find?”

Strider sat up, holding the knife wound on his stomach, where blood ran anew because of Ament’s battering. “It is no goblet you have seen. It is a door handle.”

With voluminous cachinnations of joviality, the leader grabbed his knees as though to hold himself up, such was his apparent delight. “A door handle, you say?” Ament could hardly talk from the giggles that still poured forth. Doran and Jalian smiled nervously but Strider could see the leader’s expression, and though he sounded amused, Ament was anything but. “That is a fine addition to this catastrophe, Strider. Did you bother to open it?” The healer shook his head in negation. “Of course you didn’t open it. Then you might have been useful.” Whirling about on his heels, Ament commanded viciously as he pointed in Strider’s direction, “Tie him up, hands in front, with a leash, like we had the Elf. Make sure the ropes are tight.”

Ament again peered into the grotto, staring hard into the darkness at the now fully exposed metal object he had thought to be the goblet. _I need no more complications but I should have known it could not have been this simple to obtain,_ he reasoned, trying to regain his composure. _No matter, we will see what is behind the door._

“What now, boss?” Jalian held the rope leash to the healer’s tied hands; Strider stood, oblivious to the mercenaries as he cast his concerned gaze towards the Elf across the clearing.

“Strider will open the door. It may only be a coffer but given the events of the past several days, it is likely it opens into a blazing abyss of damned souls. Either way, Strider will report to us what he sees.” Ament enjoyed the healer’s menacing, defiant stare, and the leader grinned ludicrously as he added, “ _If_ there are no traps, else I suppose he won’t be in a talkative mood.”

“What of Legolas?” Strider could not long remove his eyes from his patient.

Taking the tether from Jalian, Ament gave a vicious yank, pulling the healer towards him and cruelly twisting the man’s wounded forearm, “He will be fine. Jalian will watch him. Now, lead the way.”

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

Aragorn cogitated quickly as he crawled on his hands and knees back into the confines of the twisted trees, trying to think of a way out: the task of crawling was awkward with his hands tied before him, the leash trailing behind him.  _We’ve still no plan,_ the Ranger worried, his thoughts not drifting far from the Elf he had grudgingly left to the clemency of the mercenaries outside. _I would see Ament’s plans fail, but how?_

Arriving at the center of the cavern of trunks, the Ranger paused in front of the mysterious, handled door inset in a rock foundation, the door itself made of the same stone as the base. The brass handle was discolored from its damp place amongst the debris of leaves and twigs that had found their way down the single shaft of light from overhead. The natural duct was nothing more than an opening the size of Aragorn’s arm through which the noon sun trickled, emphasizing the perplexing handle in its bright warmth. The healer had a clear idea of why Ament had desired him to open the door: given the nature of the goblet, it was likely whoever had hidden it would not allow it to be obtained effortlessly. _I wish I knew the lore behind this artifact._

“Enough gawking, Strider. Open it.” Ament’s curly head appeared through the tunnel Doran had hacked from the tree trunks, though the mercenary leader came no further than that which was necessary for him to hold the leash and view the Ranger’s actions. Sitting back on his haunches, the healer took a deep breath ere he grasped the door’s handle, trying to pull it slowly upwards with prudence. The heavy door would not budge. With a snort of frustration, Ament crawled closer to the Ranger, inspecting the barrier between him and the means to his revenge with contempt.

“Come on, Strider, pull.” Again, the Ranger heaved on the stone door, this time pulling with all of his might. Although the rock slab lifted several inches, the weight was too immense for the Ranger’s wounded arms, and he released the handle, the stone slamming back into its foundation with a deafening thud. Growling with aggravation, the mercenary scooted forwards until he knelt across from the Ranger.

The shaft of light glinted off a knife the leader had hung on a loop on his belt, and for the briefest of moments, the Ranger considered seizing the weapon, slitting the mercenary’s throat, and being done with Ament’s evil intentions altogether. _I would never make it out of these confines alive, and neither, then, would Legolas survive. Jalian and Doran could take the goblet and the Prince._

The opportunity passed as Ament shifted his position, kneeling across from Aragorn and instructing, “Pull, Strider, as though your life depended on it.” With a criminal smirk, the demented mercenary added, “Because it does.”

Together the men yanked on the ornate handle, hefting the slab door, grunting with the effort, until they had laid the slab open, the hinges screeching in protest as they dropped the mighty door on its opposite side. A cloud of dust and withered leaves spewed up about them. Ament flattened himself against the trunk wall behind him in caution, unintentionally wrenching the Ranger by his leash forwards over the black, wide hole that the door revealed. Unable to stop the momentum, Aragorn nearly fell into the chasm headfirst: a hand stayed his fall.

Ament grinned at the healer, righting him, as he stated drolly, “Can’t have you dying too soon. Might need you later.” Both men turned their attention to the gaping maw before them, peering through the grime to ascertain what lay in the darkness. The beam of light from overhead illuminated the void; motes of dust from many years of neglect reflected the sunshine but the vast depths of the tunnel were lit nonetheless, and the bottom of the conduit was evident. A simple ladder, wrought from metal, led down into the orifice.

_This becomes more complicated with each breath._

“Doran,” the leader called, the voice echoing in the enclosed space. “Fashion a torch.” Sneering at the healer, Ament taunted, “Not afraid of the dark are you, Strider?”

The Ranger said nothing but faced Ament’s sneer with an expressionless visage. _Of course, I will be the one to check the safety of this venture._

“What are you waiting for?” Raising his eyebrows in question, the Ranger did not move, for in fact, he had been waiting for the torch to light his way. Ament detected this, and commented teasingly, “Didn’t think I would trust you with fire, did you, Strider? Climb.”

Reluctantly, the healer began to descend the ladder, testing each rung warily with one foot before placing the whole of his weight upon it. He could not identify any traps that might hinder his progress or take his life, so he continued to climb down until, at last, his feet hit solid ground. Aragorn looked up at the mercenary looking down at him: his leash had run out of slack and he could travel no further than the end of the ladder. Ament’s face was obscured by the darkness, but the sunlight pouring down around the man’s head created a sanguine halo of the mercenary’s hair.

It did not matter; the Ranger did not need to see the man’s face to know he was scowling as he queried, “What’s down there?”

The walls of the conduit had been stone; the walls of the tunnel in which he now found himself were nothing but roughhewn timbers holding back the soil. The ceiling consisted of large blocks of stone that rested on the timbers, ineffectively keeping the forest floor from collapsing down. In sporadic places, the tree’s roots had broken through the slabs, and the soil had showered down into the tunnel, leaving piles of dirt and broken rock along the passageway.

Aragorn whispered, nervous to call too loudly lest the reverberations bring the entire tunnel crashing upon him, “It appears to be a tunnel, Ament. Where it goes I cannot see. The roof is collapsed in places.”

He received no reply: the leader was busy taking a torch from Doran, who sweated with the exertion and heat of carrying the cloth-wrapped, oiled, flaming limb through the small entrance to the confines where Ament waited. Not wasting any time, the mercenary ordered Doran, “Stay outside with Jalian. I do not trust him with the Elf alone. I will return shortly.”

Awkwardly, the man climbed down the ladder, his hands burdened with the leash in one and the torch in the other. When the slack of rope increased, Aragorn moved into the tunnel, though he did not risk going too far without the leader’s light. Ament leapt the last few feet from off the ladder, startling the Ranger.

“Go on, Strider,” the leader whispered, suddenly awed by the environment in which he had entered.

Bit by bit the two made their way down the passage. They had not traveled for but a few minutes when Ament halted the Ranger with a tug of the leash. “Strider. Look.” The mercenary sounded sociable, as though the pair were strolling through a garden, rather than one controlling the other by a strap and threats.

An aperture, the height slightly less than that of a man, was carved into the dirt, with beams of wood encasing the hole for support. Ament held the torch into the doorway, and he and the Ranger were both surprised to see a room beyond it fitted with a rotting table, chairs, and another exit, this one with a proper iron door. Pointing towards the room, Ament did not need to voice his order before Aragorn led the way into the space, which the healer was pleased to note did not appear as derelict as the passageway they had left.

_The table and chairs are small. Is this is a Dwarven tunnel?_

Ament crept around the room, his mad gaze drinking in every detail, until he came to the solid iron door at the far end of the tiny space. “Open it.”

As tired as he was of obeying the mercenary’s terse orders, the Ranger complied, tugging the doorknob gently. The door swung open easily, disclosing another room, this one bare except for a pair of rusty, broken manacles attached to a spike that was driven into the rock floor. _A prison? What place is this?_

Giving the room a cursory glance, Ament led the healer back out of the cell. The leader peered into the barely dispelled darkness, waving his torch around the unexplored remainder of the tunnel, ere striding back towards the ladder, Ranger in tow.

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The bright light of the midday sun stung Ament’s eyes when he crawled from the twisted tree trunks. Doran waited for him, holding Strider’s leash, his hand out to take the still flaming torch from the leader. _Nothing yet. That does not mean I will not find it,_ Ament comforted himself. _I need Doran with me and I will not leave Jalian alone with the Elf for long._

Stretching his aching leg, the mercenary made his way to where Jalian sat next to Legolas, leaving Strider and Doran standing uncomfortably at the entrance to the cavern, unsure of what was happening. “Jalian, how does he fare?”

The scarred man shrugged his shoulders, not meeting his leader’s gaze. “It’s still breathing, that much is sure. I don’t know for how long, though. It ain’t moved or woke up.”

Ament stared at the Elf, his hatred renewing the adrenaline rush he depended on to continue his mad quest. He longed to drive his dagger through the Prince’s heart in rage for his father, his mother, and now the death of his brother, but unlike Ramlin, Ament was more logic than emotion, and he schooled his loathing to a tolerable level.

_Just enough to keep me going,_ he thought, as he drove his boot into the Elf’s side viciously, the snap of a breaking bone sending waves of delight through the mercenary’s sick mind. Legolas curled in on his side instantly, coughing and wheezing to draw air into his abused lungs, his eyes flying open in alarm and misery. Pounding footsteps were Ament’s only forewarning that something behind him was amiss, as Doran’s yelled caveat came too late to warn the leader of the oncoming healer.

The mercenary was pushed harshly to the side, the force of Strider’s body knocking them both to the ground. Ament did not have to time to block the raining blows that fell upon his face and torso from the man’s fisted hands. Strider worked him relentlessly, beating the leader in a quiet rage ere Doran and Jalian could haul the healer away, grappling to keep Strider under control with the leash and their own hail of fists and feet. Finally, the healer stopped struggling when Jalian brought him to his knees. Strider’s wrath was spent, and yet his gray eyes were filled with bitter fury.

“Ament?” Doran released his hold on the healer, sprinting to the prone form of their leader, whose bloodied, livid face rose from the ground, smiling peculiarly. His step faltering at the sight, Doran questioned, “Ament, are you alright?” He offered his hand to the leader, who accepted, and pulled himself from the ground stiffly, brushing the dirt off his already filthy clothing.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Strider,” the oddly jovial leader informed the healer, limping slightly as he walked to where Jalian held the interloper down with the leash and a well-placed hand in his hair. Indicating to the disfigured man to move backwards, Ament picked up the still lit torch that Doran had tossed to the ground in his rush to help the leader. Jalian moved away immediately, retaining his hold on the leash such that the healer’s arms were jerked up and behind his head. For his part, the healer could not hide his fear of the approaching flame but he sat unmoving, staring defiantly at Ament.

_He thinks he is courageous. We shall see how long it takes before he screams._

“We need him, Ament, for now. Can this not wait?” Doran’s anxious voice shattered the entranced leader, and he paused, considering the options.

_We do need Strider alive. He can live through a tiny burn, can he not?_ Not bothering to answer the blond archer, Ament grabbed the front of Strider’s overcoat, wresting the healer towards him as he thrust the blazing limb into the young human’s stomach. The healer screamed in agony as the flaming wood seared through his tunic and skin, the smell of burning flesh filling Ament’s nostrils. He inhaled deeply, taking great pleasure in the pungent odor and shriek of pain and fear. When he had his fill, he threw Strider back, the limp healer falling to the ground, panting heavily. _Ramlin would have enjoyed that._

Doran and Jalian gawked at Ament in horror, sickened by his gratification in Strider’s torture: the leader paid them no mind, instead crossing to the Elf, who watched the healer solemnly as he struggled to breathe. “You bring nothing but suffering to those around you, Princeling,” he taunted before kicking the Elf again, this time aiming for Legolas’ temple, which sent the Prince into oblivion.

“Ament?”

The leader rounded on his minions, his temper settling. Jalian was sitting next to Strider, his eyes wide with remembrance, it seemed, of his own burns. He held the man’s bound hands away from his stomach while grabbing for a water flask to wash the flesh wound clean with the cool water. Doran, however, was the one who had tried to gain their leader’s awareness, and prodded again, “Ament?”

“What is it, Doran?” _I am in no mood for arguments._

Hesitating, the blond mercenary asked him, “What of the goblet? Did you not find it?”

“No. Not yet. I need you in the tunnel with me.” With a shake of his head to clear the haze of his depleted anger, Ament commanded, “Jalian, get Strider up and about. He has work to do. As for you, Doran, grab the Elf. He and Jalian are coming down with us.”

The two mercenaries hastened to follow their leader's orders, their allegiance to Ament reaffirmed by the fear of enduring his disapproval. Ament watched, wiping his bloodied nose on the sleeve of his tunic as Jalian helped Strider to stand, the healer doubling over reflexively in distress as his burned skin expanded with his movement. _He will know better than to try my patience next time._ Snorting to himself, the leader amended, _Next time I will offer him no leniency._

Doran dragged the Elf across the clearing by his arms, the fair head bouncing against the ground harshly. Running a shaky hand through his tangled hair, Ament rebuked himself, _I cannot lose sight of the ultimate goal. I cannot let my anger destroy my plans._ He knew he had gone too far with the Elf, that the Prince was likely already injured mortally. He knew that Strider was expendable only insofar as the Elf was not in need of a healer – but he could not help to feel rage. And he knew then, as he sat watching the wounded healer try to crawl back into the tree’s confines and the Prince being lugged unceremoniously to the same destination, that he was, in fact, losing his mind.

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Tirn, Elrohir, and Elladan had stopped their horses, preferring instead to sprint silently the remainder of the short way to where they believed the mercenaries, Aragorn, and Legolas to be camped. _The horses would not have lasted much longer, anyway,_ Tirn thought. The three Elves had pushed the beasts beyond their endurance, hastening in their expedition with increasing apprehension that they would arrive too late. When Elladan had declared they were getting closer to their quarry, an assertion made from the newness of the tracks they were following, the three Elves had begun their run. Now, half an hour later, Tirn slowed his pace in response to Elladan’s hand held high in the air, his own pace nothing more than a crawl. Elrohir and the sentry made their way quietly to Elladan, peering over dead brambles with him.

They had come upon the camp, much to their surprise. Normally, the Elves would have heard the sounds of the men before they had come this close to their site, but all they could hear was the nickering horses’ soft hoof beats on the grass. The campsite was entirely abandoned. Bedrolls, satchels, bags, dirty bowls, bloody linen, and other various signs of recent activity were strewn about the glade haphazardly, and the forest floor was trodden with footprints. A nauseating smell permeated the air around them, reminding Tirn of how the men in Laketown would brand their livestock for identification.

_Where is the Prince?_

“That is Estel’s bag, and his horse grazes yonder,” an excited Elrohir whispered, glad to have some indication that his brother still lived.

“Where are they? Do you think they have perceived our coming and fled?” Elladan turned, facing his two companions. “There are no signs of spiders, or of any other beast, for that matter. Where have they gone?”

The sentry had no answer, and in his intense obsession to have one, suggested, “Why do we not look around their campsite? Surely we will hear them before they come upon us.” The twins nodded their assent, and the trio slinked guardedly into the campsite, glancing about them for some sign of the living.

Tirn’s eyes caught a silvery, bloody patch of grass close to the remains of a campfire. _This is the Prince’s blood, I am sure of it,_ the fair Elf thought uneasily, inspecting the patch momentarily before passing it by to continue his search. He walked the perimeter of the camp, noting the many trails that led from the clearing into the woods surrounding them. _Perhaps they were forced to flee, but why would they not take the horses?_ The keening of a dying tree rapidly drew the sentry’s attention, his eyes considering the destruction that had occurred at the other end of the elliptical glade. Splinters of wood sprinkled the ground, as did much larger chunks of the wailing, tainted trees that had their trunks carelessly hacked away. _Why this ruin?_

Running past Elrohir and Elladan, who were scrutinizing a branch meticulously, Tirn sped to the mangled, twisted trees. His eyes lit upon the hacked aperture between the trunks. _It looks as though something were dragged from the trunks,_ the sentry distinguished from the pattern of the fragments of bark and the flattened grass leading to the opening.

“What have you found, Tirn?” Looking behind, the sentry saw that the twins had trailed him, and were examining the scene with as much curiosity as he displayed.

“I am not sure, my Lords, but it appears that something was dragged from the cavern the trees make with their malformed trunks. What, I do not know.”

Elladan held up the limb he had earlier been analyzing, his face animated with sudden understanding, “Not from, my friend. In. They have dragged something in.”

“Into the trees, Elladan? There is no space for as many men as there are horses to ride them, including the Prince, to hide between the tree trunks,” Elrohir offered skeptically. “What makes you think such?”

His excitement fallen, the Noldo explained, “This was a torch, was it not? They would have no reason for a torch in the daylight, and this is recently burned.” Tirn only then noticed the end of the limb was wrapped in cloth and slicked with oil, though its very tip was bloodied and blackened, and still smoked with the last embers of its dying flame. Elladan did not wait for a reply, “And there are no men. I don’t know, muindor, I only thought that there was no place else for them to go,” the Elf finished in a disappointed rush, his discontent that they had not yet found their brother causing his head to hang in melancholy.

“We should scout the area. Follow the sets of tracks that lead away from the camp. Most seem to have returned, but there are a few trails that do not have a returning trail, or their tracks are convoluted. They may have gone in these directions, brother.” Elrohir placed his hand comfortingly on his twin’s shoulder.

Elladan’s hopeful voice queried, “Can you not see where they are?”

Elrohir only shook his head. “I do not control it. It comes as it pleases. I would that it came, for then we would have some guidance. Until then, or until we find some clue, let us resume looking.” Holding his hand out to the sentry, the Noldo Lord urged, “Come, Tirn, let us search where our attentions are more apt to find results.”

Tirn said nothing, nor did he take the wise Elf’s hand. “I will at least look, my Lord,” he declared, aware that he might be offending the Noldo’s wisdom, but he was unwilling to leave the affair uncontested. Ignoring the Elf’s indulgent glance, Tirn crawled through the hole into the cavern of the trunks. His soft gasp of shock had both twins following his progress into the cavity.

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His waking thoughts were that he had died, that he lay in his corpse with his lifeless eyes closed, but when he opened his lids, when he thought he had opened them, the blackness remained. No light filtered through to the dank, musty place he inhabited. _Where am I?_ Trying to touch his eyes to assure himself that they were indeed open, the Elf realized his hands were bound, as were his feet, and then Legolas’ memory returned to him. It had been less than half a day since he had been struggling under Ramlin’s hatred and only five since he had departed the halls of his father to complete a routine check on a scouting party.

The Elf feared he had gone blind, that Ament’s boot had stolen his sight from him, but his reason stewed, and he did not hold fast to this fear. He had greater qualms about which to worry. _Where is Strider?_ The Prince had seen the final moments before his world, it seemed, had turned markedly dark. _Strider should not have suffered to keep me from harm,_ Legolas decided, testing the binds at his wrists. It was neither as warm nor as dry as it had been before he had lost consciousness, and thus the Elf concluded that he no longer lay in the same place as he had, though where he lay now he could not ascertain. The hard rock beneath him, cooler air around him, and lack of sound convinced him that he was inside some shelter. _I cannot hear the trees. Why is there no light?_

Remembering the blade he had hid hastily in his boot before surrendering to Ament, the Silvan arched his back, disregarding the violent, jabbing pains that shot throughout his body at the movement. His hands, tied behind his back, could almost reach his feet, but the pain from his broken, worn out body kept him from reaching the far tucked hilt of the dagger. _Come, Legolas, it is only pain._ That no one had yet stopped his motions evidenced to the Prince that no one was nearby, for without doubt they would have halted his attempts. _Not if Strider is dead,_ his perfidious mentality offered him, _because the others are too arrogant to stop me._

With immense exertion, the Silvan finally caught hold of his boot with his numb fingertips, clutching the leather with all his capacity, ere he slipped his fingers within, hoping that the mercenaries had not found the hidden weapon that he himself had nearly forgotten. A red bolt of agony spread throughout his ribs at the attempt but Legolas would not give in, and so his fumbling fingers finally grasped the hilt of the weapon, pulling the knife free incautiously and slicing his ankle and calf.

The pain did not register. It was too insignificant in comparison with his other torture. Dagger in hand, the Elf relaxed his body, allowing his tormented ribs and back relief. He did not rest for long, though; turning the blade about, the Prince sawed at the ropes, carving sloppily into his skin as he cut the cord. For the first time in several days, Legolas’ hands were completely free of rope around his wrists. Immediately, he curled into himself, his torso and lower body griping with waves of nausea-inducing pain, while he cut the ropes about his legs blindly. Only then did he feel his eyelids, deciding that indeed he had opened his eyes.

The Wood-Elf lay still, listening. Hearing nothing, the Prince cajoled his bedraggled body into sitting upright, crying softly aloud as his abused body grated against the hard, stone floor on which he laid. The Prince felt shattered into a thousand different points of intense agony, each one calling out to him its howl of suffering: he ignored them all. _I have to get out of here, wherever here is._ Legolas again felt his eyes desperately, confused as to why he could see nothing. _There was no place for miles around that we could have sought shelter. Unless I have been unconscious for some time._

This thought, combined with his concern for his father and Strider, incited the Prince to search around with his hands where he sat, groping the rock in hopes of finding some clue as to where he was. He found nothing at first, nothing but the cool, rough stones and a layer of dust. However, his hands soon discovered a short stake, attached to which a pair of rusty, broken manacles lay. _A cell. I am imprisoned._ The unearthing of the shackles discomforted him; Legolas could not be assured how long he had been unawares of surrounding events, where the mercenaries had taken him, when his captors would return for him, or even _whether_ his captors intended to return for him. A panic took hold of the Elf, and he searched the stone floor madly with his hands, his wild eyes perusing his dark cage.

It was his skull, not his hands, that found the wall, and the unforgiving contact with the wooden timber nearly sent the Wood-Elf back to unconsciousness. His head ached fiercely, robbing him of the ability to think rationally, though his increasing alarm at his surroundings also deprived the Prince the aptitude to calm his probing, and soon Legolas was exhausted from the search. He could not crawl any further, and so he sat, back against the stone and dirt wall, when he first began to feel the waves of terror wash over him.

_I am underground. This is no more than a tomb._ Drawing his knees to his chest, the Elf rested his weary head on them, wrapping his arms around his legs and curling his body in on itself. _No. This is too much._

All that had happened to the Elf, all that he had endured, and all that he feared came crashing down upon him in one hideous moment. Legolas shut his eyes tightly, willing the darkness to clear and he to wake in his bedroom, this experience with the mercenaries never to have happened.

_Eru, please, I do not want to die in here without having warned my father._

Without compunction the Elf would have given his life for his home; yet, dying in a dank, cold cell with naught but time to reflect on the ills done him seemed a high price to pay for one Elf, and the Prince wished only that his father would find him, as he had promised many years before. He comforted himself by thinking; _Ada would never have negotiated with these foul men. Even if I had lived, he would never have responded to their threats of my death. My life means nothing in comparison to Eryn Galen._

The Prince began to hum a tuneless melody, just a fabrication of his maltreated faer. _I wish I had seen the stars one last time._ He pictured the halls of his father, the gardens that he and his mother would explore ere she left to answer her calling for the sea, and the verdant forest of the Greenwood. Finally, the Elf felt at peace. He could almost hear the reverberations of his heart slowing, its beat giving way to his sadness. A dim light shone through the darkness. _Is this what it is like for humans to die? Will Strider feel this, too?_

His memories of the human were few and horrible, but Legolas hoped the healer had somehow made it to safety, though he held no hope that the man had found his way to warn King Thranduil. Soft voices called to him, urging him to follow their demands. Legolas could not hear their insistent words and he did not desire to try to discern of what they spoke. The voices became more adamant and the light brighter, compelling the Elf to open his tired eyes.

“Legolas?”

  
  


 


	18. Chapter 18

“Legolas?”

Lifting his fatigued head from his arm, the Elf stared straight into the hate filled, malicious eyes of one of his captors. Without conscious thought, the Prince grabbed furtively for the dagger he had secreted past the mercenaries, snatching it in his hand by the blade, and holding it to his thigh covertly. The sharp metal bit into the skin of his palm: the Elf did not notice. He could sense nothing but the smug looking mercenary before him.

“Ament sent me to check on you, little one. Got free did you? Useless effort. You won’t be going anywhere.” Doran smirked, his blond bearded face crinkling in amusement at the seemingly defeated Elda before him.

Refusing to speak, the Prince struggled to maintain his grasp on the present, though the shimmering torchlight enthralled him, provoking within him the desire to shut his light sensitive eyes. _This may be my last chance. I may not survive but I will relieve as many of these humans of their foul lives as I can._

“Did Ramlin cut out your sweet tongue when he took you, Princeling? You shouldn’t have killed him. You will pay heavily for that transgression, I promise you.” Squatting down in front of Legolas, obviously not fearing the traumatized Prince, the mercenary laughed callously, his gaze roaming the Elf’s battered, ghastly body. “You will pay. You and Strider both. But _you_ will suffer. I will see to that.”

Glancing towards the door that the torchlight illuminated, the Prince observed no others outside who might hinder his escape attempt. He did not know for certain if the mercenary had visited him alone but it no longer mattered to Legolas, especially when the man began to touch him.

“I like the maidens myself,” Doran assured conversationally, reaching out to fondle the bloodied locks of hair that lay on the Prince’s arm.

The Elf did not move, nor respond. The man’s touch made him feel sullied, more so than the dirt and blood that stained his body: it took the whole of his being not to lunge at the mercenary. _I must disarm him first, or take him by surprise. I am in no condition to fight._

Dropping the tress, Doran added, “Ramlin liked whatever he could make bleed. From the looks of you,” the mercenary jested cruelly as he touched the Prince’s bloodstained thigh with rough pats, “he liked Elf flesh very much.” Sniggering in miscreant glee, Doran began to stroke Legolas’ knee, enjoying the fear on the immortal’s face, while the Elf shoved the dagger behind his back, not wanting the mercenary to see it until it was too late.

Despite himself, the immortal’s chest began to heave for air, the blind panic he had felt earlier overtaking him quickly at the fetid caresses of the mercenary. _One of us will die before I suffer his vile lust._

“Yes, I like the maidens – but for you I will make an exception, Elfling.” Doran leant in towards Legolas, the torch wavering precariously in the mercenary’s hand, while the other hand he used to seize Legolas’ chin, forcing the Elf to look at him while he uttered his foul promises.

Doran held the torch too close to the immortal: the heat that radiated from the flame was welcomed by the chilled Elf, but its comfort could quickly turn to pain if Doran wielded it as a weapon. Legolas could not ascertain how many knives and daggers the man had strapped to him but they glinted in the flame’s light, taunting the Elda with his weakness’ burden upon his escape. Still sitting with his legs drawn to his chest, the Prince fingered the sharp blade against his back, waiting with a patience born from his many years of living and his knowledge that in his dismal condition, he needed the proper opening to kill the mercenary.

“Ament will have no use for you, soon, but Jalian and I have uses aplenty for you.” Doran slipped his hand from Legolas’ chin, running his fingers over the Prince’s bruised arm and back down to his knees. It rested there as he pledged, “Ramlin only broke you in, but I will break you.”

With this said the mercenary slipped his hand between the immortal’s knees. _Wait, Legolas. Wait._ But he could not wait, not when the mercenary grinned spitefully at him while fondling his broken body.

Blind panic became blind rage, and the Prince did not care if he died as long as he never suffered these unwanted advances again. Overlooking the screaming protest of every part of his body, the archer kicked out, his boot contacting the torch to send it sailing through the air. The flame bounced off the opposite wall, its arcing blaze illuminating the dark cell in kaleidoscopic bands of orange-red for the short duration of its flight. Immediately, the Prince seized his dagger by the hilt and leapt forward with the remnants of his energy. Temporarily stunned, Doran fell back on his ass, slack jawed at the suddenly mobile immortal hurtling for him. Legolas hit the man’s chest with his weaponless, outstretched arm, knocking the no longer bewildered Doran onto his back. Sitting astride the tall human, the Elf grappled with his free hand for the man’s hands, which were hazardously close to snatching one of the many belted daggers along his waist, while he struggled to remain sentient long enough to muster the force necessary to swing his arm through the air.

The mercenary growled, his fingers fumbling to retrieve one of his weapons. Under normal circumstances, the Prince could have easily overtaken the human. He outmatched Doran in strength, cunning, and experience; however, acute blood loss made him lightheaded, and the cell floor tilted underneath the Elf nauseatingly. Therefore, it was only by means of sheer willpower that Legolas retained his hold on his weapon, the blade he had taken from Ramlin, as his arm completed its sweep to plunge the knife hilt deep into the vulnerable chest of the mercenary under him.

Doran’s hands ceased their scrabble for a dagger, his eyes opening wide and his legs quieting their thrashing. His consciousness wavering, Legolas lurched off the dying human, collapsing in a heap to the side as he toiled to draw air into his lungs. The mercenary’s labors mirrored the Elf’s, as both struggled to breathe.

_Hope, Legolas,_ he told himself. _One more is slain. How many more are left? And what of Strider?_ The emotive force behind his previous optimism and perseverance had deserted him in the sinister confines of what he had come to accept as his tomb; and yet, the waning light of the torch elucidated much more than the room, and Legolas’ desire to survive was reformed, if only to satisfy his yearning to see Ament dead before his own demise. _This is not over. I have not endured this long to allow Ament to succeed._

He crawled to the torch, disinclined to stand as of yet. The gurgling, choked breaths that Doran’s failing lungs spewed forth reverberated inside the musty room: the mercenary’s hands clutched at the hilt of the dagger thrust into his chest and his mouth formed words that no one would ever hear. Grabbing the torch in hand, Legolas hoisted himself up, his legs quaking under him. As he turned to the fallen human, the Elf inspected the rosy bloom of blood that had sprung from the man’s chest and stained the mortal’s tunic. _He will die alone, in the dark, as I have almost died._

He felt no sympathy for the man, or for leaving Doran to suffer in his dying. Legolas shuffled his rebellious limbs so that he stood over Doran, impassively watching him wheeze for air for a few moments, ere he bent down to throw aside the human’s overcoat to unsheathe the largest blade the mercenary held. Sparing the fading mortal no further regard, Legolas shambled to the cell’s doorway, holding the torch out in front of him defensively. Quickly scanning the room’s contents, and recognizing nothing but a few small chairs and a table, nothing that would help him, the Elf dragged himself to the doorway. He rapidly extinguished the torch by rolling it in the earth floor when he heard voices.

“... you should have stayed above. One of us needs to do so,” a soft voice argued.

_I must be hallucinating. That sounded like Elladan of Imladris._

“I am not staying above. Estel is as much my brother as yours.”

_Elrohir? Hope is as much his brother? Valar, this is a merciless deception my weakening mind has concocted. I must be hallucinating._ Legolas shook his head violently, willing the counterfeit voices from his psyche, and nearly fell to his knees when the darkened corridor he faced began to undulate sadistically at his actions.

“Don’t look to me, my Lords. I am not leaving.”

This voice the Prince knew well. _Tirn? Can it truly be them?_ Knowing there was only one way to find out, Legolas stumbled noisily out into the walkway, hearing three softly uttered, surprised Dwarven curses as he kicked a rock across the passageway unintentionally. The voices came from the lighter end of the tunnel that lay just beyond a curve in the passageway, where he could not see. When he wrenched his wounded thigh too far in his exertion to reach the Elves, he fell to his hands and knees, the jarring of his legs ripping a low moan from his lips and the knife falling from his hand, which then skimmed across the rocky dirt floor. The Prince battled not to shut his eyes against the agony. _Where are they?_ He overlooked the distinct possibility that he could be delusional, instead nabbing the proffered hope with all of his being.

A burbling, ghastly retching compelled the Elda to twist his head round to look into the room he had just exited. Doran stood behind him, a dagger in hand, and thick dark blood bubbling from his grinning jaws, staining the blond facial hair into a facsimile of a frothy, gory beard. _The knife._ Legolas scrambled to reach the blade, throwing himself in its direction as the mercenary landed atop him, grinding his amply abused body into the ground and driving his cracked ribs against his lungs. A black shade obscured his vision but the Elf felt the knife at his fingertips, and he clamped down on the blade as he rolled to the side, momentarily overturning the floundering human.

Doran was not so easily dissuaded by the evasion; his fervor to take the Prince with him as he died fueled the failing mercenary. Expertly, the human flung his dagger. It embedded where the Elf’s shoulder would have been, had not Legolas rolled. Torrid pangs of agony at the sudden motion added to the scorching disharmony of the immortal’s torture, and his hold of the long knife he had recovered loosened as he cried out his anguish. It fell to the tunnel’s rocky floor with a clatter, and the Prince could only observe as Doran fell onto him, his bloody hands wrapping about the Elf’s throat in a final attempt to throttle the life out of him.

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They had spent several minutes bickering about how to proceed after Tirn’s discovery of the hidden tunnel within the deceptive confines of the trees’ trunks. It had not taken long, however, for the sentry to convince the Imladrian twins that he would descend in search of his Prince, with or without them. Again, when they had climbed down the rung ladder to find a dilapidated passageway curving into unidentifiable territory, the trio had paused to quarrel over who would guard the doorway. Their squabble had been broken with the sounds of someone walking through the tunnel. It was not until the Elves had heard a quiet moan that they were spurred into action, their quibble forgotten as they crept stealthily towards the sound of a scuffle up ahead. The source of the subsequent cry of distress was familiar to all three Elves, and they broke into a sprint, tearing past the curve and onto a horrifying view in the diffuse light of the passageway.

Legolas lay on his back, his hands pawing at the ground above him for a dagger. A tall, blond, bloodied human sat straddling him, strangling the Prince as he laughed, blood sputtering in his soundless mirth.

Before either twin could react, the twang of Tirn’s bow echoed down the corridor, the projectile flying true to burst through the human’s chest with a definitive thud. Elladan and Elrohir looked at the sentry with shock, which only grew when they perceived the violence that the once timid Elf exuded. _He looks every bit the fierce Silvan warrior, now,_ Elladan thought absentmindedly. A second thud followed the first as the human fell backwards; his body was limp in the throes of his death, his unseeing eyes full of loathing as he breathed his last. Without further delay, the trio darted to the Prince’s side. _Sweet Eru. How is he still alive?_

“Legolas? Can you hear me?” Elrohir gently tapped the archer’s face, whose eyes were glazed over in shock. Checking the fluttering pulse at the Prince’s throat, Elladan quickly assessed how to treat the worst of the archer’s injuries.

“Do not leave us, my friend. We will help you,” Elrohir assured the drained Prince as he gently brushed the Elf’s hair from his eyes and peered down into them with a smile. The Wood-Elf did not answer but blinked his sunken, blackened eyes slowly, his contused brow furrowed in concentration.

Looking over the daunting task before them, the twins wasted no time, but worked as a team, handing each other bandages and water flasks from their satchels as they attempted to clean the cuts and abrasions on the Prince’s torso, feeling for broken bones and other maladies as they went. Tirn kept watch over the far end of the tunnel, and they moved as silently as possible. They would have moved the Prince to somewhere safer, but without first knowing how serious his injuries, it might have done more harm than good. Everywhere the Prince's white skin was mottled with bruises and covered in blood. At first, Elladan had thought the half clothed, typically fair-skinned Prince was covered in dirt; that is, until he had tried to rub the grime away from a stab wound the Wood-Elf had sustained to find it was also a bruise. _He is beyond beaten. He looks as though he were trampled by a drove of Oliphants._

“Is he alright?” Tirn hovered around the Noldo healers, his anxiety and distress at the condition of his Prince plain in his shaken, tear stained face.

“His body is yielding, Tirn, but we will do what we can,” Elrohir promised and then turned back to his work.

“Here, Tirn,” Elladan offered, holding out a length of linen. “Wrap his wrists now that I have cleaned them.”

_Tirn will feel better if he can help,_ the Elven Lord decided, anticipating the sentry’s eager reaction. Tirn did not disappoint, but sat cross-legged on the dirt floor with his Prince’s head in his lap, wrapping the linen tightly around the archer’s seeping wounds.

_We may be too late. I have never seen a more injured Elf._ The wounds that they could not tend, the injuries Elrohir had seen in his revelation, were beyond their abilities as healers to treat, and it was these that Elladan worried over as he finished tying a bandage.

“I have felt no broken bones, brother, other than a few ribs that may only be cracked. We should move him outside now to care for him properly, and to be safe.” Elrohir pointed at the blood soaked leggings, exchanging a meaningful glance with his twin.

_Even these wounds will need to be tended, if we can convince Legolas to allow us this._

“Strider,” a sabulous voice petitioned. The twins and sentry jumped at the softly spoken word, none having held much optimism that the Prince would gain awareness, and certainly not so soon. Legolas’ blue orbs searched his surroundings myopically, not seeing the Elves gathered around him.

“Prince Legolas?” Tirn could take the pitiful sight no more, and began to weep inaudibly as he stroked the archer’s hair.

Unexpectedly, the Wood-Elf’s eyes focused, his muscles tensed and he tried to sit. “Where am I? Where is Strider?”

“Halt, Legolas. Lay back. We are friends. Do you remember us?” Elrohir tried to soothe the archer but to no avail. The Prince managed to sit up in spite of his companions’ gentle attempts to keep him back, groaning as he did so. “Please, Legolas. You will only aggravate your injuries further.”

For the first time, it seemed to Elladan, the archer took notice of the Elves around him, for he sat baffled, looking from twin to twin to Tirn and back again with wide, haunted eyes. “I thought I hallucinated your being here.” The archer’s ribs stuck glaringly out through his thinned skin, his cheeks were gaunt, and his haggard, bandaged, and befouled appearance was harrowing to the three Elves surrounding Legolas. However, when the Prince grinned and his battered face lit with genuine delight, Elladan, Elrohir, and Tirn were helpless but to smile sadly back. “I am glad you are no apparitions. Your presence brightens my dark thoughts. I was beginning to think your brother had driven me mad,” the Wood-Elf teased, glaring in shocked cheer at the twins until he realized Strider was absent. “Where is he?”

As he unscrewed the top of a water flask, Tirn explained, “We have not yet found him, my Prince. We only just found you.” He helped the archer drink and addressed the twins, “We need to get the Prince outside, and then we will return for your brother.” Elladan and Elrohir nodded.

_Tirn can stay with the Prince._

“Where are we?” Legolas questioned, his gaze lighting upon the dead mercenary a few feet away.

_I hope he has not been despoilt again; he is on the threshold of death as it is._ Intentionally blocking with his body the Prince’s macabre view of his attacker, Elladan worried as he peered down the unexplored passageway, _Tirn will have to take him to the palace as soon as possible. Aragorn may not be so easily found and Elrohir and I may not return._

“I was hoping you could tell us that, Legolas.” Shoving his supplies back in his satchel, Elrohir asked, “When last did you see Estel?”

“Hope?” The Wood-Elf was perplexed.

Smiling kindly at Legolas, Elladan explicated, “Strider is our brother. Estel is his Elven name.”

The Prince mumbled something under his breath and shook his head. “I do not know how long I have been down here so I do not know when last I saw him.” The three uninjured Elves helped the archer to stand, each supporting his wrecked body so that Legolas was not damaged further. “He is burnt but I believe he is alive,” the Elf added, his gaze again on the dead human’s corpse.

_Burnt? Ai Valar. The torch._ Elrohir must have had the same thought, for each twin grimaced at the other.

Following the line of the Prince’s vacant stare, Elladan decided, _We should hide the body._ He stooped to pick up the mercenary, and Elrohir joined him. Tirn kept his hand under the Prince’s arm, ready to catch him at the least provocation, while Elladan and Elrohir tossed the dead mercenary’s body into the cell, shutting the door without a sound. They kicked rocks and dirt over the bloodied soil in hopes of disguising their presence. They needed any advantage they could get.

“We should find Strider,” Legolas told Tirn as they watched the twins cover their tracks.

“We will find him, but you are going nowhere, Legolas,” the sentry decreed, and promptly blushed in horror at having ordered his Prince and called him by name.

The archer only grinned, clasping the sentry’s arm tightly as he countered, “We will find him, Tirn, if you are with us. You have now twice found me while I was lost.” Although Elladan and Elrohir did not understand the allusion to the sentry and Prince’s past, they both understood that Legolas’ admission of being lost meant more than his physical presence, and was an admittance of his despair.

Bowing slightly while never loosening his grip on Legolas’ arm, Tirn declared, “I will find you my Prince, wherever you have strayed, but it was only with the help of Lords Elladan and Elrohir that I have located you this time.”

“Then I must thank you all, my friends.” The Prince could not stop smiling, his relief apparent in the unusual cheer he showed.

“That will suffice. They will not see that we have been here,” Elladan stated, examining their surroundings and the dark passageway where their brother was likely to be discovered. Pointedly, he ordered both sentry and Prince, “You both are going nowhere except back to Eryn Galen. We will find Estel.” Neither Wood-Elf agreed, but shook their blond heads in unison.

“Nay. There are only two mercenaries left, I believe, and Strider. Though they are small in numbers, they seek a weapon that the leader, Ament, plans to use against Mirkwood. I will not allow him to wield it,” the Prince declared, squaring his shoulders in defiance for any of the Elves present to order him to remain behind again.

_He won’t be dissuaded, not when Eryn Galen is under threat._

Sighing exasperatedly, Elladan conceded with a nod, raising his hand to stifle Elrohir’s attempt to argue with Legolas. “What weapon?”

Ignoring the adamant, pleading tugs Tirn made on his arm to lead him out of the passageway and back to the forest, the Prince answered, “A goblet they believe will grant them immortality.”

“Sweet Eru,” the twins swore in tandem, their worried green eyes meeting in shared dismay.

_Melfren’s goblet has been found? It cannot be._

“My Lords?” Tirn ceased his insistence that the Prince leave the tunnel, instead focusing on the horrified Noldor. “What is it?”

“Ament has been misled,” Elrohir clarified, rearranging his weapons as though preparing himself for battle. Fretfully, he questioned Legolas, “He has no other Elf, does he? You were the only one?”

“As far as I know. Why?” Legolas allowed himself to be led by Elrohir's careful guidance to the outer room of what was once his cell, and was now Doran’s tomb.

_Legolas’ abduction was not merely about ransom or revenge,_ Elladan pondered, following his brother and friends out of the derelict tunnel as Elrohir began the story. _Or else these mercenaries do not know what evils they resurrect with their foolish plans._

  
  


 


	19. Chapter 19

The tunnel seemed endless: as they walked down the dark, rickety passageway, Aragorn could not help feeling that each step brought them closer to their deaths, though none seemed as concerned as he did with the dilapidated surroundings.  _Their greed blinds them to danger. Money is their only concern, or hate._

He concentrated on memorizing the many twists and turns they took in case he had to make his way out without the benefit of torchlight, but also to distract himself from the searing pain in his belly. The pointed branch had broken the skin, stabbing deep into the flesh of his stomach, but not, he believed, so deep that it would be fatal, and the flame had cauterized the wound enough so that it did not bleed freely. Such fortune, however, did not keep the injury from voicing its loud protest to his every movement, and Strider was in constant agony as they searched.

Although they had explored several more decrepit pairs of rooms like the ones in which the Prince had been sequestered, nothing had been found, and their leader was growing restless with worry. Doran had been sent back earlier to check on Legolas, as Ament seemed no longer to trust Jalian alone with the Elf, but Doran had yet to return. The need for fire to light their way became one of intense interest to the Ranger, as he began to fear the darkness afore him irrationally: his eyes played tricks on him and the dense shadows dispelled by the torchlight were replaced with a new terror, his vision of the ever increasing instability of the passageway’s ceiling. It did not help that he was the one testing the doors and rooms they entered before Ament and Jalian would cautiously join him to peer anxiously around themselves. _Keep your wits, Estel,_ the Ranger advised himself, though nothing, it seemed, would stifle the dread that built within him.

“Try this room next,” Ament ordered before moving back a safe distance away with Jalian, the leash stretched taut between Aragorn and him.

The Ranger complied by turning the wooden handle gradually, and then pushing the crude door inwards. A none too gentle shove from Ament sent the Ranger staggering into the room, his leashed hands incapable of aiding him in maintaining his balance. He did not fall, though, but was kept upright by Jalian’s steadying hand, whose unforeseen mercy the Ranger appreciated. Since the healer had tackled the leader for his unwarranted assault on the Prince, Ament had been most ruthless to Aragorn, and had taken every opportunity to remind the Ranger that he was dispensable. Not that Estel cared, for his fury at watching the mercenary kick the tied, unarmed, and unconscious Elf had known no bounds that could have kept him from retaliating against Ament.

Much like the rooms before, this area seemed devoid of any life, wealth, or the goblet. In the distant corner sat a table, its roughhewn plank surface covered in the remnants of an uneaten meal, the tankards and plates held no recognizable leftovers of food and had obviously been left unused for many years. Chairs were cast haphazardly around the room, and it seemed to Aragorn that this room was in congruence to the others. _Whatever beings lived here, they have been absent for a long time, and all seemed to have left in a hurry._

His frustration overtook his caution, and Ament kicked the table petulantly, causing the wooden legs to give way beneath the slab and to come crashing to the dirt floor in a rumbling cascade of dishes and cutlery that resounded in the room. _The fool will bring the entire grotto down upon us._

“I grow tired of this,” the leader stated sullenly, his torch swinging wildly about him as he peered into the barely illumined darkness. “How many more rooms would you say we’ve yet to search, Jalian?” Unseen by Ament, the disfigured mercenary shrugged his shoulders, and after a few seconds of silence, the leader screamed, striding malevolently towards Jalian with the unenthusiastic Ranger forced by his leash to follow, “Answer me!”

Instantly, Jalian responded aloud while holding his hands up in apology, “Sorry, boss. I don’t know how many. The tunnel is collapsed further down the way. There could have been one, maybe two more.”

With a sneer of eccentric amusement, Ament snapped, “Not that it would matter. All these rooms look the same. We may as well be searching the same one over and over.”

The mercenary rubbed the black clumps of hair on his scarred head as he considered his leader’s words. “Except this one don’t have a cell, right?” The vacant look Ament gave him caused Jalian to shrug his shoulders again as he offered weakly, “I don’t know. This one’s different, anyways.”

Thoughtfully, Ament considered Jalian, his feral eyes gleaming. “You’re right. This one is different.” Torch in hand, the leader paced the perimeter of the room to hold the light next to the barely contained soil walls.

With Jalian’s assessment in mind, the Ranger had to agree, _This is the first room not to have a cell attached._

When Ament and his torchlight reached the far corner where the fallen table lay, the three men were all stunned to note that the wall was not the compressed, open earth held back with timbers of which the other walls were made. The entire corner consisted of dark stone block that was mortared clumsily into a simulacrum of a trap door; one side held a large slab of slate that served as a sliding door. It was encased in thick timbers set deep in the floor, and though the Ranger did not know by what mechanism the door worked, the other side of the stone walled corner held a simple enough looking lever.

_I will be interested to see how Ament deciphers this puzzle,_ Estel thought, but then he realized, _I would be the one to try to work the mechanism._ He snorted in dark amusement, the action causing his burn to throb sharply, and earning him a baffled, sympathetic look from Jalian.

As if on cue, Ament ordered, “Strider, open the door. Pull the lever.”

The healer obliged reluctantly: he stepped on the table’s top, kicking dishes as he shuffled to the lever. The leader dropped the leash, and he and his minion stepped out into the shadowy corridor to watch the Ranger’s effort. Aragorn could barely see, as Ament had taken the torch with him, but the healer could tell the lever was threaded through a small hole in the wall, and within the hole sat a gear.

_It is naught but simple machinery._ The thought did not motivate him. _There may still be something that will bring hazard._ However, he had no choice in the matter, not if he wanted to be alive to keep his promise to Legolas. The odds of Ament killing him for refusing to open the door were certain while the odds of him dying from the consequences of pulling the lever were debatable, and so he tested the handle’s give. It moved slightly downwards at his restrained prodding.

“I am tired of waiting, Strider. Do it.”

Aragorn sighed and heeded the leader’s order by pulling the lever, increasing his force at the resistance as the room filled with a mighty screech. The door was opening. The lever would move no more, and the door had slid to the right only halfway. Believing the slab would stay open, the Ranger released his hold. With a resounding shriek of stone against stone, the door slammed back shut. Soil dusted down from the shoddy ceiling and Jalian cursed colorfully in fear.

Ament crept to the Ranger, the torchlight held limply out to his side, forgotten in the leader’s current awed state. “How did it do that?”

Ament’s question went unanswered until Jalian poked his head in through the door, rubbing the dust from his scarred scalp. “Weighted pulleys, I’d wager, boss. Used to have ‘em at the slave traders’ quarters, where they broke the slaves, so they wouldn’t get out.”

Ament spared the mercenary an interested glance before he scowled. “We’ll need to keep the door open,” the leader thought aloud, rubbing the unkempt stubble on his chin. He looked back and forth from the cowering Jalian to the healer, who trembled from the spasms of pain his gouged, burned belly wracked throughout his body from the exertion of pulling the lever.

He did not miss Ament’s uncertainty though, and he knew what the man was thinking. _Doran has not yet returned. He will need someone to work the apparatus while I explore the opening._

“Jalian, I need you to pull the lever. Keep the door open.” The mercenary appeared as though he would argue but a warning growl from Ament kept him quiet. Picking up the leash from the floor, the leader yanked Aragorn to the slab and gave Jalian his command, “Now.”

_Please, Eru, should I die in here, see Legolas out of this chaos,_ the Ranger prayed as the door slid open again. He could hear Jalian groaning and huffing.

When the slab was halfway open, the scarred mercenary moaned, “I don’t think I can move it no farther, boss.”

“Just keep it open,” Ament ordered, forcing Strider forward towards the gap. “Hurry, idiot.” The leader jabbed the torch ominously at the Ranger, “Get in there.”

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Ament was not pleased. _Doran is taking his sweet time. He had better be dead or dying, else he has no excuse for this insolence._ The leader was not fond of leaving Jalian in charge of the apparatus, or of allowing Strider within the confines of the newly found trapdoor alone. Jalian would be unable to hold the door for long, which meant that either Ament would have to give Strider leeway with the rope and the torch to explore the discovered room, or he would have to enter it with him. That he did not know what lay within the trapdoor irked him, as it forced his already overwrought intellect into choosing between the lesser of two evils: he would need to enter with Strider.

Therefore, his final, rapidly given orders to Jalian ere he quickly slid through the gap to the awaiting, bound healer were, “I will knock on the slab when we are ready for you to open the door, Jalian. When Doran comes back, tell him where we are.”

The scarred mercenary nodded his frightened, blotchy head, his face red with his endeavor to keep the door open, and Ament slipped dexterously into the hidden room. Shortly thereafter, the door slammed shut. _Idiot had better not have broken the lever,_ the leader contemplated hatefully, staring at the closed slab of slate ere turning to Aragorn, leaving Jalian alone, and without light, to await his signal.

“Go on, then,” the leader demanded, stabbing out with the enflamed limb again.

The healer complied, causing Ament to laugh. _I knew he wouldn’t try my patience again. His first bout with the torch has solved that impudence._ Unlike the walls of the outer room, but like the mortared block of its doorway, the room in which they now stood was solid, and even its ceiling was better equipped to withstand the weight of the forest floor. Strider walked only a few feet in front of him, not willing to leave the security of the faint circle of light that the torch cast around them in the dense, black atmosphere.

As they drew nearer to the opposite barrier of the room, Ament noted that attached to the walls were several lengthy metal chains replete with sets of shackles, and these were fastened around the moldering, bony remains of what appeared to be several humans, a Dwarf, and what could have been an Orc.

“Looks like we’ve stumbled onto some merrymaking, Strider. Care to join them?” Snickering, Ament kicked the nearest corpse, its delicate, brittle skeleton clanking together before disconnecting into a heap of bones and clothing. “From the looks of this place, I’m guessing these poor souls pissed the witch off, or he was using them for experiments.” The questioning look the healer gave him prompted Ament to explain helpfully, “Melfren was said to have had a secret den for torturing and experimenting. I would say this is his old lair. He was trying to find a better Orc for the Dark One, or so the story is told.” Kicking the dusty corpse of the Orc, Ament added, “Must’ve been disobedient. He used to have Orcs as soldiers.”

Tugging the leash with him, the leader became bolder, moving about the large room, searching avidly for the goblet, but finding instead another sliding trapdoor, though this one was broken, the thick slate in pieces in the floor. He motioned for the healer to move through it. _There is nothing in this tomb._ When Strider had crossed the ramshackle threshold, Ament followed behind, his flame illuminating what would once have been the master’s bedroom. _Perhaps those weren’t experiments but his harem,_ the leader mused distractedly, his excitement growing with the finding of the moldy, rich decorations surrounding him.

The farthest end of the room lay in shambles, its walls and ceiling caved in, but the end in which they stood was intact. An extravagant bed lay at their side, and on the other side sat a tall armoire with its glass-inlaid doors busted out. Within were arranged a multitude of treasures that would normally have exhilarated Ament; mithril bobbles, a rapier that seemed to be of the First Age, and many other assets. However, the tall, plain golden goblet that sat proudly in the center shelf of the armoire held all of Ament’s attention. _I have finally found it._

“Get it out, Strider.”

The healer had been ogling the collapsed end of the room. _I bet there was once a door down there. The entire end of the corridor must be buckled._

“Now, damn it,” Ament ordered edgily, thrusting the torch in the general direction of the healer and yanking the leash.

Immediately, the healer moved to the cabinet and stuck his hand warily within the doorframe, reaching slowly towards the goblet. As the healer’s fingers brushed the hallowed object, Ament felt a frisson of anticipation. _It is mine._ Strider prolonged the mercenary's sweet suffering as he gripped the chalice, extricating it by minute increments of motion until he had freed it from the shelf and held it entirely in his hands. Wasting no time, Ament rushed forward, seizing what he believed providence to have bestowed upon him.

Dropping the leash and barely with the sagacity to maintain his hold of the torch, the leader ran into the room of carcasses, pounding on the slab three times to alert Jalian to open the door. “I have it, mate! We’ve got it, open the door, Jalian,” Ament yelled, his glee clearing every scowl line from his face.

Strider walked cautiously into the room, his leash trailing behind him. _I’ll even let the bastard live,_ Ament thought graciously. _Hell, I’ll let them all live but Thranduil’s whelp. Might even give them the money I promised, too._

Again, he hammered the slate, shouting louder, “Jalian! Doran! Come on, now. We’ve got it. Open the damn door!” He inspected the goblet while he waited for the slab to slide open.

It was not abnormal in the least; if he could not feel the emanating promise of evil from it, he would not have been able to discern whether it was just another chalice or not. _Nay, this is it._

Laughing hysterically, the mercenary banged on the door, striking the stone incessantly as he bellowed, “Jalian! Doran! Open the door!”

Silence met his request, and as the leader turned to meet the terrified gaze of Strider, Ament realized what the healer had: Jalian and Doran were not outside, and they were trapped within the cell with no way out.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a gentle push, Legolas was forced into sitting in a small chair. _They are as obnoxious as ever,_ the Prince thought somewhat deliriously and smiled in spite of the pain both smiling and sitting caused. The task of standing, much less walking into the room, had been problematical, but the abrupt change in positions and the harsh contact of his body on the seat had Legolas reeling with pain-induced vertigo.

Elrohir had been talking, and was now asking him questions, and he could not understand the Elf’s words, although from the look of the Noldo, he was very concerned. The Prince closed his eyes in concentration. _Stay awake, Legolas,_ he told himself even as his body pitched forward from the chair. Swiftly, the fair Elda was upright again and he opened his eyes: the blurry form before him had their hands on his shoulders, staying his fall. _I am only dizzy._

“...lost too much blood,” a Noldo stated, coming to stand by the shapeless shadow Legolas believed to be Elrohir.

“...still bleeding, we need to sew...” one of the twins told the other.

His mind was filled with gray fog that obscured the Elves around him. He could well have been back in the dark cell, for he could not comprehend their muffled words: it was as though a wall lay between them. A hand touching his thigh alarmed him instantly, the fog lifted with his reflexive terror, and the Prince stood up quickly, toppling the twin that had been kneeling before him even as Legolas fell backwards over his overthrown chair, landing with an excruciating smack on the dirt floor.

“Go away,” he whispered ferociously. _No more of this,_ his disorientated mind supplied.

“Legolas,” a soothing voice told him, “do not be afraid.”

He could not tell which of the forms had spoken, as he was incapable of opening his eyes against the agony that radiated from his body, waves that were provoked from his impact with the hardened floor. When his breaths came in rapid, small rasps that had his mind whirling violently out of control, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not be afraid, my friend. I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you, Legolas.”

_It is only Elladan,_ the Prince wondered, disgracefully incredulous as to how he had mistaken the Elf for one of his captors. As the pain abated, he found he could still not open his eyes, though it was shame at his overreaction, not the pain, which kept them shut.

“I need to sew the gash on your thigh. Will you let me, Legolas?”

The Prince nodded his head, derided but also soothed by the patronizing, benevolent Noldor. Two sets of arms lifted him from the ground and placed him on the soft cloth of a cloak that had been thrown over the room’s table.

Ripping the breeches more than they already were, one of the twins told the sentry, “Tirn, hold him down. We do not need him injured further if he becomes distraught again.” Immediately, the Prince felt strong hands hold his biceps to the table, the pressure placed on the only part of the Wood-Elf’s body that was not bleeding or bruised at the moment.

_This is unnecessary. We are wasting time. Ament will find the goblet._

A sharp sting erupted intermittently from his wounded thigh as Elrohir stitched the ragged skin together, but the archer paid it no attention. When someone dribbled miruvor between his cracked, split lips, the Prince swallowed automatically. The irregular stabs of pain from the needle ceased, and Legolas opened his eyes to find Tirn staring down at him, the sentry’s face a mask of abject dismay. “Prince Legolas?”

_How do they know?_ It was obvious from Tirn and Elladan’s response to the Prince’s eschewal of their friendly touch and overall skittishness that the twins and sentry were aware he had been ill used by his captors.

All three of his rescuers began to argue at once, bickering over something of which Legolas could not catch the content. _The arrow. I knew the voice was familiar. It was Elrohir. He has seen everything, then. How has this been possible?_

“Let me up,” the Wood-Elf whispered hoarsely. No one heard him, so intent were they on their quarrel. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and tried again to break through the arguing Elves, this time his voice carrying to them such that each leant over him to catch his soft words, “Let me sit. I was only lightheaded; it has passed.”

Defiantly, the sentry retained his hold of the archer’s arms. “Rest, my Prince, please,” Tirn begged. Legolas did not bother asking again but rose up, and the sentry removed his restraint dutifully, instead helping the injured Eldar Prince to sit.

“You told me where the arrow lay,” the Prince stated stoically to Elrohir, giving no preamble to his words as he situated himself on the table as comfortably as he could.

Although Tirn and Elladan had both been present, only Elrohir understood of what the archer asked. “I did,” the Noldo replied. “I am sorry we did not arrive sooner, Legolas.”

The Prince looked down, his face blank. “I am sorry you have witnessed my debasement, Elrohir, but I thank you for your council. I was in dire need of it.”

The Noldo smiled kindheartedly, placing a hand lightly on the Elf’s bare shoulder, “You are most welcome. You can repay the favor by accompanying Tirn back to Eryn Galen as soon as possible. He will –”

“No,” both Legolas and Tirn started to counter simultaneously, who then looked at each other in surprise, though the Prince finished his sentence, “I have made a pact with Strider. We leave together or not at all. Besides,” he declared, pinning each of his fellow Elves with a tired glare that dared them to argue, “I have yet to hear what danger the goblet Ament seeks may bring. I’ll not leave until I am assured Eryn Galen is safe.”

Tirn nodded his assent but disputed despite his sovereign’s warning gaze, “I agree, my Prince, but perhaps you and either Lord Elrohir or Lord Elladan could journey to the palace. I will stay in your stead to aid the Ranger and make certain –”

“I think not, Tirn. It is our brother that is missing. Neither of us will turn away. Take the Prince home,” Elladan interrupted.

_Ranger? Strider? I should have known._ Legolas would have laughed had not the gravity of Elladan and Tirn’s quarrel prevented him. _Sweet Eru, we do not have time for this._

Elrohir must have arrived at the same conclusion, for he seized the two bickering Elves’ arms, “Enough. None of us is leaving, apparently, so let us confer. We need a plan.” He turned his attention to Legolas, “Tell us what you know of the goblet.”

The Prince explained to him in brief: “I do not know much. Strider knows more, though we never had the occasion to speak of it in length. When I was captured, the two men who detained me said that the goblet would bring immortality. Later, the men alluded to using the goblet to wage war against the Elves.” Frowning, Legolas added to his disjointed tale as he shifted uneasily on the table, “But Ament confessed to Strider that he sought it to exact revenge on my father for some ill he believes perpetrated against him, using me as bait to both grieve King Thranduil and take the wealth of Eryn Galen.”

Rubbing the knot on the side of his head, the Prince watched the Noldor twins and his sentry exchange confused glances. _We’ve not the time for this. We need action, not talk._ He made to say so, but Elrohir nodded in the direction of the door. Without additional instruction, Elladan peeked out into the corridor. He stayed there, keeping watch and a keen ear focused outside as Elrohir restarted the story he had been disclosing before the Prince had relapsed into his agonized stupor.

The Noldo stroked the hilt of the sword at his waist as he recited the legend he had heard: “I do not know the true intentions of your captors but the goblet would not aid them in their quest. It is cursed, and any who uses it will lose himself in the Darkness, vanished from Arda, while the goblet’s maker, Melfren, will come back from the Darkness, commandeering the soulless body.”

Tirn gasped; like the Prince, he had heard of Melfren from stories told but did not know of the fabled goblet, and queried, “What of Melfren, and how came he to fashion such an object of Dark power?”

“Melfren was a once powerful human witch, trained in the Black arts of Mordor, who desired the immortality of the Elves. For all his power, he could not obtain that which he most longed for, eternal life, and so the witch found a way, although not all went as planned.” Casting a quick glance at his twin to ascertain that they were still safe, Elrohir continued summarily, “If Ament uses the goblet, he will become Melfren. If the witch returns, much more than Eryn Galen is unsafe, for Melfren’s loyalty aligns with Mordor. Such an artifact in the hands of our common enemy would endanger all of Middle Earth.”

_I wonder if Strider knows of this,_ Legolas thought. _It is now an understatement that he said this mire of deceit and greed was complicated._

“But you claim it is cursed, my Lord,” the sentry asked, perplexed. “How so?”

Stepping forward to adjust a loosened bandage wrapped around Legolas’ torso, the Elven Lord explained patiently, “The lore tells that Melfren died in his hideaway ere he ever used the charmed goblet. As he lay dying, the witch cursed it, castigating any who uses it by displacing his soul with Melfren’s Black spirit so that he could one day live on.”

He did not doubt the accuracy of the Noldo’s account; however, Legolas was unsettled as to why he had been taken, and so inquired, “Ament did not know who I am until I tried to escape. Why would he have abducted just any Elf?”

“He needs an Elf for the goblet to work,” the twin replied, shivering at the implications of what the Prince asked. “The goblet was charmed such that one who drank the blood of an Elf from it would gain immortal life. After it was cursed, Melfren will obtain both eternal life and another body with which to live it.”

The small room fell silent as Legolas and Tirn mulled the sordid legend, until a thunderous echo reverberated in the hallway outside the door. “That sounded like the roof collapsing,” Elladan declared, moving into the room. “Estel is in there, somewhere. We need to find him.”

Another question the Prince had yearned to ask resurfaced, “Where is here? Where are we?”

“Under the Mirkwood forest,” Tirn answered as he aided the Prince in standing from the table, and then continued, “We crawled through an odd opening in the midst of several tree trunks. I do not know what kind of place this is, but it was well hidden.”

_We are under the twisted trees Doran was chopping._ Thinking of the now slain mercenary caused the archer’s flesh to crawl, and he shuddered involuntarily.

“Prince Legolas?” The sentry tightened his hold of his monarch’s arm.

“I am well, Tirn. Do not worry,” Legolas lied as he followed the twins out of the room. “We should find Strider, and Ament, ere this whole place collapses.”

They had barely made it to the door when another roaring reverberation came rolling down the corridor, and soil rained harmlessly down on them from above, though it portended a much greater downfall should the corridor’s structure be compromised further. When the dirt had ceased to fly, and they could finally breathe without doubt again, all four Elves turned towards the darkened hallway at the sound of fast approaching footsteps.

  
  


 


	20. Chapter 20

Elladan was the first to react; he considered herding his friends and brother out of the tunnel altogether, but the rapidly forthcoming footsteps did not allow them the time he knew it would take to help the Prince escape up the ladder. So instead, the Noldo shoved his stationary brother back into the room they had just exited, and more gently guided Legolas and his ever-vigilant keeper, Tirn, to the rear. The four Elves pushed as far into the unsound dirt wall that they dared; the twins crouched on either side of the door, while the sentry shielded the distraught Prince in the corner. Looking to his brother, Elladan nodded, the instructions passing between them tacitly. Elrohir unsheathed the long blade at his waist slowly, the burnished metal making no sound as it slid free of its leather-lined sheathe, while his twin did the same. _Come this way, human._ He did not want to run after the man in the hallway, as he was sure this would create a ruckus any other mercenaries would be sure to hear.

“Doran!” The footsteps faltered as they approached the opened door, their owner obviously hesitant. “Doran.”

The Noldo peered out into the dark corridor around the shoddy doorframe. _It is only one unarmed human._ As the mercenary reached the doorway, the troupe of Elves pushed farther back into the shadows.

“Are you there Doran? I can’t see nothin’, mate.” Elladan tracked the mercenary’s progress across the threshold; he waited patiently for his brother to step forward. “Damn it, Doran, this ain’t no time for tricks. Come out where I can see you. What’d you do with the torch?” The moment the human had walked far enough into the room, the Imladrian Lord had his sword at the man’s neck.

“Do not move, human,” the twin commanded. Elladan came out from behind the door, stepping in front of the panicked mercenary with his own sword outthrust towards the human’s chest. From this angle, the Noldo could see that the mercenary was horribly disfigured, his face and scalp were covered in old burns that had never healed properly, he lacked the use of one eye or it was made of glass, and the man was absolutely petrified.

“Hey, no need for this. I ain’t armed,” the mercenary begged. The man’s features were fearfully slack in response to the enraged Elven face before him and the proximity of the Elven blade at his throat. “I’m just looking for a friend, that’s all.”

“And your friend just happened to be in an underground tunnel where the Prince of Eryn Galen was being imprisoned?” Elladan snorted. _We will keep this one to press for answers, but if this human has hurt Estel or Legolas, he is dead afterward,_ the Noldo vowed, though he lowered his sword. “Where are your leader and the Ranger?”

Slowly, the scarred human raised his hand, wary not to move too suddenly as he pointed to the blade at his throat that Elrohir still held. “Whatever you want, Elf, just give me room to breathe.” Elladan nodded to his brother and the twin complied, moving his broadsword to rest in the small of the man’s back.

“Where is Strider?” The Prince had broken his sentry’s mothering grasp, and limped his way to Elladan to stand in front of the human.

_He hangs by a thread_. Elladan realized, his healer’s scrutiny ascertaining, albeit unknowingly, what his human brother had realized earlier that day: _If not for his duty to Mirkwood, the Prince would have succumbed to grief already._

“Tell ‘em, Legolas. Tell ‘em I didn’t hurt you.” The human beseeched the Elda familiarly, as though they were longtime friends. He had his hands raised in petition and his face showed no surprise or resentment at seeing the Prince freed. The man pled to Elladan, pointing to Legolas, “I just want out. I don’t want this no more. I didn’t hurt it. Just let me go. I don’t want nothing anymore. I ain’t hurt it or no one.”

Tirn had come to stand behind the mercenary, beside Elrohir, and his incensed demeanor at his Prince’s diminution warned Elladan that the human was coming close to suffering the effects of the sentry’s indignation. However, the Prince shook his head, halting Tirn’s advance. “No, Jalian, you did me no harm, except to take me from my home and place me at the mercy of your fetid companions. Where are Strider and Ament?”

Perhaps deciding that collaboration would behoove him more than begging, the mercenary answered, nearly weeping as he glanced at each irate Elf before him, “I left them. I wanted out.”

“Where did you leave them, human? We heard what sounded like the roof collapsing.” Elrohir poked the mercenary in the back lightly with the sharp tip of his sword, emphasizing his growing weariness of listening to the man’s inanity.

“Nay, not a cave in. That was the door shutting. They can’t get out. I left them.” Noting the exasperated expressions on the Elves’ faces, the mercenary sighed as though irritated himself at how thick his captors were. “The goblet, the room with the goblet, or so they thought it was. It was a trap door. I pulled it open but it shuts itself. That’s where they are. They can’t get out.”

Elladan looked to his twin, seeing the same relief. _He is alive but trapped, which means it would be easier for us to find him._

“If you want ‘em alive though, you’d better go quick. Ament ain’t too happy with Strider and they’re likely to kill one another when they figure out they can’t get out,” the mercenary added helpfully, a hopeful smile on his face.

_He must think we are letting him free._

“Show us this trap door.” Elrohir’s statement was a not a question. The human cringed in fear, his face falling at the knowledge that he would be shown no clemency by the Elves around him.

“Wait,” Elladan told them, grabbing from the floor a torch that although dusty was still wet with enough fresh oil to be of use. He pulled free his flint to light it, moving as quickly as he could for he was eager to find his brother. Nodding, he told his twin, “Let us go.”

Another careless prod of the sword at his back prompted the mercenary into motion, and the four Elves and human walked from the room, out into the corridor with Jalian in the lead. Tirn, Elladan noticed, never let his hand fall from the Prince’s elbow, as though afraid that Legolas would vanish. _He may very well disappear,_ the Noldo thought, trailing the mercenary and his brother, who had hold of Jalian’s tunic as they walked, his blade never far from the man’s body. Memories of his own mother’s departure from Middle Earth overwhelmed the Elf, and he turned his gaze from the Wood-Elf, unwilling to lose himself to such empty thoughts. _We will save him, we will save them both,_ he pledged on Legolas and Aragorn's behalf, sparing the Prince a final forlorn look. The derelict tunnel before them portended a collapse, but whose downfall it foretold Elladan could not begin to guess.

“It’s right up here,” Jalian commented after they had walked for several minutes in silence. He pointed towards the darkest end of the tunnel. The Noldo’s exceptional eyesight showed him that not far beyond the door the mercenary pointed to, the passageway had fallen; tree roots and stone slab lay in broken pieces on the floor, as did an enormous mound of soil. The mercenary turned to them, pulling free of Elrohir’s grasp and heedless of the sword still pointed at him to beg, “I showed you. Now let me go. Ament will kill me for helping you.”

“He is right. Ament will kill him,” Legolas declared stoically, glaring at the human while he surreptitiously held onto Tirn’s forearm to keep from falling. “But what would stay you from deceiving us, trapping us in the tunnel as you have trapped Strider and Ament behind the trapdoor?” Jalian seemed to ponder this, his hands flitting about his sides in his desperate agitation. The Prince responded for the mercenary, “Nothing. However, if you aid us, I will personally speak on your behalf to King Thranduil for mercy.” At the mention of the sovereign’s name, the human blanched, the only color on his skin smudges of dirt and the oddly tinted, scarred flesh.

Elladan stepped forward, seizing the mercenary’s tunic once more and pushing him forward callously. “Go, then, into the room.”

_For all his fear, this may well be a trap,_ the Noldo decided, desiring the mercenary to lead the way just in case. With a grimace, Jalian bobbed his head in frustrated acquiescence and stepped through the doorway.

The room was similar to the room outside the cell close to where they had found the Prince, save the trapdoor in the far corner and a handle that stuck out from the wall. Muffled voices could be heard behind the door, and Elladan’s apprehension as to what state in which they would find Estel spurred him into action. Elladan shoved the end of the torch between two slabs of stone in the wall, which lit the room just enough to give the Elves enough light by which to see, although the humans would have a harder time in the dimness. Elladan seized the mercenary and dragged him to the lever. “How does it work?”

Jalian stared thoughtfully at the Noldo, rubbing his head as he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, really,” he replied in the same quiet tone. “Strider just pulled the lever, and that’s what I did.”

“Open it.”

“No, wait.” Legolas had joined the twins and mercenary at the door, his sentry following closely behind. “Ament does not know I am freed or that you are here,” he reasoned.

Placing his hand on the lever, the disfigured human offered cooperatively, whispering, “That’s right. Let me lure ‘im out.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He watched the mercenary sadistically kick the rotted corpses in the cell one by one, muttering unintelligible curses to himself as he shattered the decomposed prisoners’ skeletons into clouds of splintery decay. Ages old dust flew about the room in the leader’s whirlwind of mindless rage. _At least he is kicking them and not me,_ Aragorn concluded. He was unsure of what to do. The decrepit condition of their surroundings only promised further tragedy if they tried to dig their way out. Ament had already tried to break the slab of stone barring their exit, an impossible feat given that it was encased in mortared stone and bulky timbers, and itself was too solid for naught but heavy weapons to overcome, something they sorely lacked. As terrified as he was, the Ranger was satisfied that if nothing else, Ament’s malicious plans would never come to fruition. _This promise I can keep to Legolas, although I will not see us both out alive._ He tried to avoid a rain of fractured bone but was pulled abruptly forward when Ament caught hold of the leash, yanking the man to his knees.

“You have done this. What did you promise him?” Ament shoved the burning torch at the Ranger, who could barely dodge the quick jabs. “Doran heard you talking to him. What lies have you told Jalian? Is he coming back for you? Where is Doran?”

Overwhelmed by the volley of questions and the dangerous proximity of the flame, the Ranger did not try to answer. Another tug of the rope brought the Ranger’s hands over his head, exposing his already aggrieved stomach to the man’s enflamed stick, an opportunity the mercenary used with violent glee as he stabbed at the healer again. But Aragorn would not give in to his mistreatment so easily. Jerking back on the leash by swinging his arms downwards as hard as he could, the Ranger ignored the severe pain that lanced throughout him as his movement ripped at the burnt flesh of his belly. His action, however, proved successful, and the mercenary was wrenched forwards, his balance thrown, and his momentum bringing him to his knees before the healer. The torch came with him. For an instant, the blindingly bright flame seemed destined to land on the Ranger’s head, and had not Aragorn inadvertently fallen backwards from his own pain-induced instability, it would have.

Ament growled, grabbing for the torch before the healer could pick himself from the floor. With fire in hand, the mercenary lunged at the Ranger, throwing himself from his knees onto the healer’s form and pushing Estel back onto the ground underneath him, sitting astride the Ranger’s stomach. “You have crossed me for the last time, Strider,” Ament snarled, sinking the alight limb into the Ranger’s chest, the oily flame burning through the healer’s leather overcoat, tunic, skin, and then muscle with a wet hiss. Only when the sharpened end hit bone did its progress stop, its tip too big to pass through the narrow space between the Ranger’s ribs. The air rushed from the healer’s lungs as he tried to scream, though he managed only a garbled, choked wheeze. Ament seemed intent on skewering Aragorn with the limb, pushing with all his weight to break past the barrier blocking him from killing the Ranger. Estel wrapped his hands around the torch, unmindful of it scorching his hands, to remove the searing heat, to expunge the cause of the horrid smell of his own roasting flesh. He pushed with all his might but could not oust the limb, and so he bucked riotously, unable to kick the man from his stomach, but hoping to throw the man enough to gain control of the torch.

The leader’s hold slackened and Aragorn twisted the flame from his chest, tossing the offending weapon from him as he struggled to squirm from underneath Ament, disregarding the piercing agony erupting from even his slightest motion. The torch rolled in the dust for a few short moments before sputtering out, leaving Ranger and mercenary in absolute darkness. Aragorn scuttled backwards, kicking his feet out to propel his prone body away from Ament, until his head smacked the bricked wall behind him. He sat up and pushed his back against the wall, looking wildly about him, despite his inability to see, to catch any movement by the leader. Nausea roiled within him, and the bitter taste in his mouth matched the pungent smell of his scorched flesh. Estel fought the urge to close his eyes because he knew that doing so was the initial step to relinquishing whatever lucidity he had, and he was not willing to die without seeing the leader dead first. _You promised Legolas. See this through,_ he chided himself. _Ament may yet find his way out. Jalian or Doran may come back._

Strider listened. He could hear Ament breathing but could not tell from where the noise came, not with the abnormal reverberations of the hushed sound throughout the cell and adjoining bedroom. The abrupt sensation of a hand on his ankle startled the Ranger, and he reflexively kicked out, perceiving the distinct, satisfying sound of a cracking bone as the hard sole of his boot met with some part of Ament’s body. A growled scream followed. Pulling his legs under him, the Ranger tried to stand, using overlaps in the roughly laid stones behind him for support, but ere he had gained his feet, the slick pain of a blade pushing through the muscle of his calf brought him back to the rock floor. The unexpected change of position stretched old and new wounds, causing the healer to coil into himself, bringing his knees up to protect his egregiously injured belly and chest as the leader crawled over him, stabbing the short blade several times at the Ranger’s topmost leg and thigh before losing his grip on the bloodied hilt. When it clattered to the floor, Aragorn lashed out with his bound hands, pummeling the insanely persistent mercenary, who seemed oblivious to the hail of fists on his body. Ament returned the blows, landing several excruciating punches to the Ranger’s stomach and chest, and causing Estel to curl more tightly upon himself as his burns were jarred repeatedly.

“Fool,” Ament roared. “You will perish with the rest of these worthless souls, Strider.” Grabbing the healer’s hair, the leader rammed Estel’s head into the stone wall behind him repetitively, causing stars to dance before the Ranger’s eyes. “You are a liability. Like Meika, like Ramlin.” He leant down to whisper in Aragorn’s ear, his hand fumbling for the mislaid dagger, “And like them, you will die.”

_With pleasure, if only I could know you will die with me,_ the Ranger thought despondently, his mind giving way to the blackness not around him, but within. He did not have to see the mercenary to know the crazed man’s expression as his hands finally clasped the blade.

The screech of the trapdoor being opened compelled the weary Ranger to blink skeptically, the notion of escape revived in his befuddled, aching mind. Ament held the dagger at Aragorn’s throat, his hand wavering unsteadily in the lightless cell, slicing tentative shallow lines across the healer’s neck.

“Ament, it’s Jalian. Are you in there, mate?”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_I hope his plan works._ Tirn looked to his Prince, who with him was crouching in the shadows of the tunnel by the door, watching the occupants of the room before them absorbedly. _He needs to be in Eryn Galen._

In all honesty, the sentry did not know what the Prince needed but he had hoped that the sons of Elrond would know. When Jalian had offered to call Ament out, to bait the mercenary to the battle prepared twins, Tirn had been hesitant. The scarred human’s belittlement of his Prince had not been assuaged by Legolas’ confirmation that Jalian had not hurt him, and the sentry wanted his arrow to puncture the disfigured man’s heart as it had the other mercenary earlier. Nevertheless, the twins and the Prince had been adamant, believing the Ranger to be in grave danger and the goblet likely to have been found, and Jalian to be the best means of ascertaining whether these things were true. They would take no chances. Besides, Jalian assured them that Ament trusted him, that he would be unsuspecting of any subterfuge.

The twins stood to the side of the door, waiting in the far corner against the wall in which the door was set, while Jalian stood on the opposite side of the room, holding the lever down to keep the slab door ajar. “Hurry Ament, I can’t hold this thing forever.” The scarred mercenary sounded terrified, his voice cracking as he rambled. “What happened to the torch, Ament? I can’t see anything. Did you get the goblet? Are you in there?”

_Careful, human, lest you give us away._ Elladan shifted nervously beside Elrohir when the sound of a short-lived scuffle from within the dark cell met their ears. _I hope their brother is well._

At the doorway appeared a human in a long leather overcoat, and behind him appeared a deranged, red haired human with a blade held to the first human’s throat. The leather-clad human was barely conscious, it seemed to Tirn. “I thought you had left us, Jalian. But perhaps you came back for you co-conspirator here. Couldn’t leave Strider, could you?”

_The one with the knife must be their leader._

“What do you mean, Ament? I just went to check on Doran and the Elf. They’re in the front. I came back to get you –“

The knife-wielding human interrupted with mirthless chuckles, and the Ranger grunted as the blade gouged his throat with each shake of the mercenary’s arm. “I am no idiot, Jalian. Doran saw you and Strider talking. What are you planning?”

Jalian glanced helplessly around him, his arms beginning to shake with the effort of keeping the lever down. “Nothing, boss. Just come out. I can’t hold this door much longer.”

“Come out? What, so you can have the goblet for your own?” Again the mercenary laughed, his sinister, joyless cachinnations grating on his audience’s ears. “Nay, mayhap Strider and I will just stay in this hole in the wall. We were enjoying ourselves thoroughly before you came along.”

A restless Legolas turned to Tirn, his blue eyes filled with fright for the human; the sentry shook his head, hoping to stay any attempt the Prince might be concocting to help his human friend. The twins were also edgy: their advantage on the leader was lost. _Jalian was wrong about Ament. He obviously does not trust him._ Given the mercenary’s fear of his boss, Tirn doubted the human had lied to them, however. _Now what?_

As though in answer to his question, Elrohir strode forward and spoke as he walked. “Master Human. Believe me. You do not want to harm the Ranger. Hand him over.” The shock on both the Ranger and the mercenary’s face was tremendous, for though Ament may have expected deception, he had not anticipated artifice in union with Elves. Estel’s shock gave way to unreserved relief, despite the dire conditions, and a titanic grin lit his face when he saw his brother standing before him. It was then that Tirn noted the Ranger’s pallor and the blood smearing his neck. “You have no other options, human. Let him go, and perhaps we will let you live in spite of the travesties you have forced upon our brethren.”

Ament had recovered from his shock, and while backing into the cell, slid the dagger down Strider’s collarbone, educing both a red welt of blood in its wake and another stifled grunt of pain from the Ranger. Elrohir took a worried step forward, though his progress halted when the leader warned, “Come no closer, Elf, or I will spill his blood.” When he was safely beyond the twin’s reach, he added, “Ranger?” Ament snorted. “You lie well, Strider,” he complained, addressing his captive with another gash. “What do you want with him? He is mine. His fate does not concern you.”

Elladan had walked from his hiding spot to stand beside his brother, causing Ament to stare between the mirror images, astounded. “Why we want him does not concern you, human. Hand him over.”

“No. I give him to you and I am dead. Strider is mine,” Ament reasoned, his eyes gleaming.

_He is mad,_ the astute sentry deduced, temporarily turning his attention to the Prince. Legolas appeared on the verge of leaping forward to aid Strider. _I am not losing him again._ Grasping the Prince’s upper arm, the sentry earned a glare from his monarch as he stopped Legolas from jumping into the room.

The scarred human interrupted, “I can’t hold this anymore.” His limbs were quaking with the effort of keeping the door partly open.

Elladan made as though to aid him but the leader cautioned in a low, menacing voice, “Do not move, Elf, or your Ranger is dead.” Jalian mewled with pain, heaving with all his might on the lever. Suddenly smiling, Ament offered, “You are here for Thranduil’s brat, are you not? Or whatever is left of him?” Snickering, the human scowled even as he beamed at the twins. “Ramlin treated him properly. He will not live long, if he is not already dead. I want only him. Give him to me and I will let you have the Ranger.”

At the reminder of the human’s role in Legolas’ torment, a seething Tirn clenched his fingers forcefully into his palms to keep his anger at bay. The Prince stood, prepared to trade himself for the Ranger as Ament had asked. Tirn grabbed Legolas’ arm tightly, yanking him back down to earn a second scathing frown from Legolas.

“You are unaware of what powers the goblet truly holds, human,” Elrohir adjoined. “You place more than just yourself in danger with its use. It is –“

“I need no advice from an Elf. For too long have your kind influenced the world of men for your own devices.” His knife trembled at the Ranger’s throat, slicing the skin with another shallow cut that was more painful than deadly. “Give me the Prince and you can have this worthless human. The goblet I shall keep.”

Jalian groaned, his arms finally giving way as the lever slid from his hands and the trapdoor slammed shut with an authoritative, grandiose thud, enclosing Ranger and mercenary back in their dark room, and leaving the twins, Legolas, and Tirn wondering how the situation could become any worse.

  
  



	21. Chapter 21

Together they huddled in the passageway outside the cell’s outer room. Urgency fomented their deliberation.  _We need bait to lure Ament out of the cell. He will not release Estel otherwise._ The refulgence of the sun’s dying rays dimmed in the far end of the tunnel, the end that the Elves and human knew to be the only way out of the underground den.  _The sun is setting,_ Elladan determined, his anxiety rising with the thought,  _and we have decided nothing._ Soon the benighted tunnel would be fully dark, with only the dying torchlight in the other room by which to see.  _We have been down here for a few hours, though most of that time we spent tending Legolas._ Said Elf was currently wracked with a fit of agonizing coughs. Jalian hurriedly found a flask in one of the twin’s packs, offering it to the thankful woodland Prince. The mercenary’s goodwill was a testament to his fear of what should happen if he did not proffer it. 

It had only been a few minutes since the trapdoor had slammed shut, its impact sending small piles of soil to the tunnel’s floor. Occasional rumbles shook the passageway and in their wake, more dirt fell from between the shoddily placed stone tablets holding the tunnel’s ceiling aloft. In those few minutes since the leader had made his devastating ultimatum, the Noldo had exhausted every possibility for aiding his young human brother. The only plausible way to draw the leader from the cell was to meet the mercenary’s demands, if only ostensibly. _I would have Estel back, but Legolas goes too far._

Elladan’s first instinct had been to accept the Prince’s overgenerous proposal to make the trade: he stubbornly believed that the leader might still be persuaded with their elucidation of the goblet’s curse and the Prince’s plan had its merits. However, as much as he loved Estel, Elladan knew the Ranger would rather die than let the Prince put his life in further danger, or allow anyone to trade his life for Aragorn's life. _Even should we save Estel, Legolas would still be at risk. Ament cannot be allowed to escape with the goblet, not with an Elf._

Legolas’ plan had been simple. He would hand himself over to Ament, drawing the mercenary from the cell, and Ament's retreat to the cell would be impeded by Jalian closing the trapdoor. Estel would be safe and the goblet within their reach. Should they not be able to persuade Ament or otherwise obtain the goblet without force, Tirn would be hiding in the tunnel at ready as a failsafe. An arrow would halt Ament’s attempt at flight with the goblet, with the implicit insinuation that the leader’s retreat and retention of the Wood-Elf be impeded despite the possible consequences to the Prince.

_He is right,_ Elladan conceded, watching Legolas drain the flask in one insatiable swoop. _It would afford us time to find Ament, as he would need to find another Elf before Melfren could be resurrected, should Tirn not have a clear shot at the mercenary himself._ He admired the Prince’s willingness to sacrifice his life as a last ditch effort, but he would rather it not be so.

The coughing fit finally stifled, Legolas was once again badgered into reneging his recommendation. “It does not matter, Your Majesty. I am not letting you.” The sentinel stood resolute in his decision, daring the Prince to argue, which Legolas did without pause.

“It would be best that we solve this without Strider being hurt. There is no other way to draw Ament from the cell.” To match his appalling, albeit veracious logic, the Prince added, “I am dead in any case, Tirn.” Elladan did not have the time to catch his twin before Elrohir bound forward, knocking the sentinel out of the way when he grabbed the Prince’s arm, shaking him roughly. He nearly felled the Wood-Elf.

“Do not speak thusly, Legolas! You are not dead, nor will you be.” Elrohir stopped when Elladan pulled his twin's hand gently from the startled, quavering Wood-Elf.

He understood his brother’s anger; their mother had made similar morbid utterances immediately after her torture at the hands of Orcs. They had been the words that signified she was submitting to grief, and soon after, she left for Valinor. _We are wasting time arguing._

Elrohir studied the beaten dirt floor in the ensuing awkward silence after his outburst. “I am sorry, my friend. But do not be so ready to die, Legolas,” he whispered in Elvish. Legolas nodded his head, his face free from expression, but Elladan could tell the traumatized Prince was not ready to cease his argument, and Elrohir’s outburst had shaken more than Legolas’ body.

Unaware of what was being said, Jalian cleared his throat, refocusing the Elves' attention on the calamitous situation they faced. The mercenary rubbed his scarred head, sending soil flying from the black wisps of hair as he tentatively offered his own opinion. “I think Legolas is right. Ament won’t budge. He don’t make idle threats, neither.” As if to emphasize the scarred man’s assertion, wild titters erupted from the cell, muffled by the block of stone between them and the objects of their discussion: Estel and Ament.

All five beings turned to the eerie sound. Elladan shuddered with the sudden departure of hope that Ament would be sensible. _He is mad – he will see no reason. But we have to come to a decision quickly, or our decision will be made for us._ The blood covering Aragorn’s throat had frightened the Imladrian Lord, for how shallow or deep the cuts were he could not tell, and so the Ranger’s well-being was already in doubt. The maniacal laughter did not alleviate Elladan’s worries.

Jalian continued his opinion, his marred face glistening with perspiration despite the chill of the tunnel, “It is the only way boss’ll come out of the cell. He won’t listen to your story, though. He’s crazy. But we don’t have any other choice. Maybe if we just draw him out, pretend like we’ll hand Legolas over.”

_We? So now, he is on our side. It is amazing how fear can change one’s allegiances._ Elladan snapped at the human, unable to hide his acrimony at both the human and the situation in which they found themselves, “And then what? Even should he come out, he will not release Aragorn until he has the Prince. Either way one of them dies.”

The woodland Prince flung his blood-matted hair from his face, declaring softly, “It does not need to end with Strider’s death.”

_No, it would end with yours, and Estel would fault us forever, as we would blame ourselves._

The sentry suddenly smiled at Legolas, his abrupt exuberance inciting him to blush brightly and his fair face to light with stalwart determination, “Nay, my Prince, it does not need to end so. I will go in your stead.” Tirn began to undo the straps to his quiver, laying it carefully on the ground as he explained his change to Legolas’ plan. “If the only way to lure Ament from the cell is to trade a life for the Ranger’s life, it will be mine.”

He had barely unbuttoned his outer tunic when Legolas protested, “No, Tirn. It is my duty to –“

“It is my duty to protect the Prince of Eryn Galen,” the sentry interrupted, yanking his tunic from his shoulders before he bent to remove his boots. He tugged the laces free, standing to kick the leather boots from his feet. “I will not return to your father without you.” No one moved, nor spoke. When more inane giggles echoed from the cell, Tirn pressed, his voice brokering no room for further debate, “It is _my_ duty. I will not let you do this, so be quick: switch breeches with me. We will fool Ament into thinking I am you.” Legolas still did not move, nor acquiesce, prompting the sentry to advise, “You are a Prince. Your life is not your own to choose death so freely, my Lord."

Elladan anticipated that Legolas would fight, but no argument was forthcoming. Legolas only looked down, avoiding the eyes of the Elves and human surrounding him in the now pitch dark passageway as his hands fumbled with the lacings of his leggings, the only clothing save for his boots that he wore. “I would never ask this of you, Tirn. We cannot allow Ament to escape with the goblet, especially not with you as his captive. Do you understand?”

Legolas’ statement of the obvious held an undertone Elladan recognized, and he looked to his twin, seeing the same understanding. If nothing else, it would be better that Tirn die than for Ament to escape with him and the goblet. The Noldo was humbled that the sentry was willing to die for his Prince’s desire to aid their human brother. _It may not come to that,_ Elladan responded weakly to his own doubts, hoping they would not lose the sentinel, but eager to reach any decision as the vile cackling continued in the cell behind him.

With a sadly beatific smile, the sentry confirmed, “I understand, your Majesty.”

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He held the dagger so tightly he could no longer feel his fingers: Ament did not release his grip. He and the Ranger stood as they had before, for they had not shifted since the door had slammed shut, enclosing them in the dark confines of the cell. The leader’s blade lay at Strider’s throat, gouging the healer’s flesh carelessly with each malicious giggle that Ament could not seem to imprison within the effervescent lunacy welling inside him. _A Ranger._ Another bout of laughter threatened to escape him; however, the leader bit his lip harshly, his teeth bursting through his flesh. He did not feel it. _I have none to blame but myself. I was weak to let his story of his parents’ death convince me. It is no doubt a lie, too._ With his free hand, he groped the rim of the goblet strapped to the belt of his tunic. _Human frailty. Fear. Sickness. The threat of mortality._ Ament snickered, and then laughed outright when the blade of his dagger scraped across the healer’s throat, causing Strider to stiffen against him. _No more will these things bother me._

He could not hear the Elves outside, nor did he care. _They want Strider. They will hand over the Prince, or concoct some scheme to obtain the Ranger._ He knew what they knew: the Ranger would not live to see the next sunrise if the Prince was not tendered, and thus any attempt to save Strider’s life would compromise Legolas’ life. _We will see whom they value more. Knowing Thranduilion, he will likely deliver himself to me to save Strider._ Why the Elves would want the Ranger was beyond Ament’s understanding, but they wanted him, and that gave the mercenary the advantage. That the Prince had already yielded once to save Strider’s life made it seem probable that he would do so again. _Whatever scheme they intend to enact, they will find it lacking. They can do naught when they are in this cell, and if I let Jalian live long enough to let them out, the Prince and I will be long gone._ Of course, he had not yet informed them of this stipulation, but he expected them to obey. Jalian’s collusion he felt assured of, as he convinced himself that the Elves had scared Jalian into obeying their first ruse to lure him out of the cell.

Ament could find little over which to be concerned. His life would soon end, or he would have life immortal. _Either way, my vengeance has been exacted. Thranduil’s whelp will die and I will avenge Ramlin’s death by taking Strider’s life if they do not hand the Princeling over._

The memory of his brother’s death clung akin to fog to his every thought. _His death is nothing to me. He was only a means to an end, an end I will achieve without him._ It wasn’t to have been this way. _Never again, never will I lose someone close to me. Never will I feel this loss._ That he had been the cause of this loss, his hatred and ill use of his brother the reason behind his own misery, briefly crossed his mind. Throughout their lives, Ament had been the brains to Ramlin’s brawn. He had used his wits to shape his brother from the kind child that had cried in a tree, clinging to his older, wiser brother while their father was shredded by Orc and Warg. He had molded Ramlin until the child had become a man of violence and prejudice. _He was only a method to obtaining my revenge._ From that early morning that the boy had watched his father slaughtered, Ament had promised himself to find retribution. The object of his hatred had not started as King Thranduil; in fact, Ament had not even blamed the Elven warriors who had misguidedly chased the throng of Warg riders into the edges of Laketown.

It was not until their mother had died that the mercenary had turned to hate to fill the void caused by his parents’ death. Penniless and landless, Ament began a life of thievery to support his young sibling and himself. The poverty and constant fear had become ersatz companions to his once loving parents, and in this state of perpetual suffering, Ament had found solace in rearing his young brother as an accomplice to his desperate attempts at security through gain. _Ramlin would have died without me. He owes me._ Chuckling merrily, the mercenary closed his eyes against the darkness, listening to Strider’s labored breathing while he waited, barely afloat in his flood of memory. _He_ owed _me. And now the Ranger owes me for his life. As the Princeling owes me for the death of my family._ And so, the mercenary had lived his life nurturing within his brother a hatred for the woodland King, merely a symbol of his odium, and only its object because it suited his lust for remuneration.

_They drove the Orcs and Wargs into Laketown. Thranduil is to blame for father’s death,_ he told himself. As often as he had told Ramlin and himself this explanation, an account the mercenary believed but had not the evidence to prove true, there had existed the fuel for the loathsome fire Ament needed to incite Ramlin’s compliance. However, Ramlin’s hatred had simmered until it had boiled over, his perverse craving for inflicting pain and misery had emerged, and Ament had encouraged these traits as another method with which to achieve his goal. It was then that the leader had promised his brother that which they had never had, instilling within the youth the same desires Ament himself held for money and power, and the groundless destruction of those that had them. _Thranduil will suffer what I have suffered. He will be destitute, landless, without family, and he will forfeit his immortal life to grief with the hideous torture and death of his beloved son._ The phantom rationale underlying the mercenary’s desire for revenge against the woodland King did not bother him: Thranduil was a scapegoat and Legolas merely another sacrifice by which Ament might obtain what he believed chance to have taken from him, and the goblet to have been given to him by providence as his chance for recompense.

Strider shifted before him, cutting himself against the dagger unwittingly when his body heaved in spasms of pain from the blistered hole that Ament’s torch had burnt through his chest. _A Ranger. I wonder why the Elves want him._

“Ament.”

_So they are ready to deal._ Smiling to himself, the leader called genially back to the voice beyond the slab door, “Yes?”

“We have discussed your compromise.” A pause ensued before the voice added, “Strider?”

The healer drew a deep breath; Ament could feel the Ranger’s chest heave with the effort. “I am here, Elladan. I am well.”

_You lie again, Strider. You are certainly not well._

“We will trade the Prince for the Ranger. Give us time to retrieve Legolas.”

He thought of Doran, where the tall archer was, and why he had not stopped the Elves. Grinning so widely it hurt his face, Ament replied, “You will find the Prince in a cell at the beginning of the tunnel." _Or you will run into Doran, who will whittle your bones into new hilts for his swords._ "And do not take too long, Elf.” He received no reply, but the mercenary knew his words would be heeded.

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_Sweet Eru._ Elrohir helped the Prince remove his tattered leggings. The sticky cloth peeled from Legolas like a second skin, replete with its own supply of silvery blood. _How does he even stand? His breeches must contain more blood than he holds within his veins._ Elladan and Jalian had left the tunnel, going into the room outside the cell to speak to Ament, and Elrohir could hear his twin talking with the leader and speaking to Estel. _This plan may work, if Legolas will have the strength to pull his bowstring, not to mention to aim._ When the cloth was finally free of the Silvan’s feet, Elrohir helped the Prince stand up straight. _Ai Valar. It is just as I saw._

Across each of the archer’s slim hips were bruises so dark and distinct that Elrohir could isolate each finger that had gripped Legolas’ fair skin. The Noldo had seen this in his vision; he had known how the Prince had clawed at the dirt to remove his body from Ramlin’s grip. The evidence of the cruelty nauseated Elrohir: though he had seen it happening, he had still not been prepared for the reality of it. Blood was smeared between the Elf’s thighs and down his legs, and though much of the sanguine fluid came from the various cuts that decorated Legolas’ lower limbs, the twin knew that the Wood-Elf had been abused brutally, that the Prince was beyond merely ill-treated. He looked to Tirn, catching the sentry’s desolation at the state of his charge. _Ament did not lie: his brother treated him properly indeed. Perhaps Legolas is right,_ Elrohir despaired. _He may well not survive._

Silently, the sentry handed his leggings to Elrohir, who kindly helped the unsteady Prince to put them on without falling. He could not fathom what courage it had taken the Prince to live this long, to persevere through his torment, much less his confinement in the darkened cell or the altercation with the mercenary in the passageway, but Elrohir knew the Wood-Elf’s strength was fading, as was his health. _If we do not tend these wounds and get him to Eryn Galen soon, he truly may as well be the bait in this rash scheme instead of Tirn._ Another cloud of soil fell from the precariously upheld ceiling, the pattering of clods of dirt and stones falling several feet before them. The completion of his twin’s conference with the irrational leader hastened Elrohir’s effort to clothe Legolas. _I will not have him exposed in front of Jalian. Despite his recent beneficence, he is still the Prince’s captor._

Tirn wore a mask of unconcealed melancholy as he pulled on the woodland sovereign’s bloodied breeches. Elrohir grabbed the sentry’s tunic, hauling it swiftly over Legolas’ shoulders ere he began to lace the Wood-Elf’s leggings. “Thank you, Elrohir,” the Prince whispered sternly.

The tremble of his voice and body belied that archer’s fierce expression, and the Noldo could not help but to respond, “You are welcome, my friend.” He hesitated. “Legolas, are you certain you can –”

“Yes.” His face set in grim resolve, the Wood-Elf bent stiffly to retrieve his sentry’s bow and quiver from the tunnel floor. “I am certain. My arrow will fly true.”

Nodding, Elrohir added to himself, knowing the Prince's reputation for being one of the best archers in the Greenwood, _Though whether it will find Ament or Tirn is yet to be seen._

Elladan and Jalian appeared through the doorway. “We have procured more time. I told him we were fetching Legolas from his cell.” His twin poured their last skin of water onto the dirt floor, and Tirn and he smudged the dark soil in a credible facsimile across the sentry’s chest and face, mimicking the Prince’s bruises fairly well. When Elrohir had helped Legolas position himself in the far, darkest end of the tunnel where the soil and rock were heaped from a previous collapse, he removed some of the Prince’s bloodied bandages, taking them to Elladan. After the cloth had been wound around Tirn’s form in its various appropriate places, Elladan appraised their work, asking Jalian, “If you did not know him to not be the Prince, do you think you could tell it was not Legolas?”

Thoughtfully, the scarred mercenary glanced between the now clothed Prince and his reproduction. “Naw. Not unless I looked real hard.” He pointed to Tirn, “’Ceptin’ his hair looks too clean, and he ain’t as skinny.”

Together the twins pulled the sentinel’s ignored braids from his blond hair, mussing the locks in knots and tangles with mud and the blood from the Prince’s breeches that Tirn now wore, recreating Legolas the best they could before turning back to Jalian. “We can do nothing about his not being as thin as the Prince, but I doubt Ament will notice in his race to flee from us. What of his hair?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Jalian conceded, “It’s better, eh? He’ll be fooled, no doubt about it, since boss don’t know your friend’s with ya and being as its dark in here.”

“Then I believe we are ready,” Elladan stated.

With a final scrutinizing glance at the sentry to ascertain he would pass as the Prince, and another glimpse at the Prince to make certain he was aware and prepared, Elrohir took Tirn’s arm and walked behind Elladan into the room outside the cell. _Eru, please let this ploy work._

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As pleased and encouraged as the Ranger was that his Elven brothers had miraculously appeared, he worried, _Why have they promised Ament the Prince? What plan have they contrived?_ Above all, the healer hoped that his brothers had a plan, that Legolas had not convinced them to trade his life. _Surely they are not so daft. Ament would have the goblet and the means with which to use it should they comply with his demands._ His other reasons for seeing the Prince through this ordeal were less concerned with the common good, and more concerned with his own culpability in the Prince’s current state; moreover, Strider had made a promise. He would not leave the Elf to die.

The leader’s hot breath blew in his ear as Ament spoke, his first words to him since they had been locked inside the cell room again, “A Ranger. You are a good liar, Strider.” Not believing the mercenary desired an answer, the young human kept his silence, pushing back against the leader to avoid the blade at his throat when another bout of laughter rocked Ament’s body. His voice grew softer as Ament whispered in the Ranger’s ear, “But you cannot lie your way out of this, _Ranger_. The Prince’s blood will spill, but not until Thranduil has turned over his riches and lands.”

Even with the dagger biting into his flesh, Aragorn contested, “Thranduil will give no ransom, not when his son is dead or dying. You are a fool, Ament, to believe the King would hold Legolas’ life in higher regard than his kingdom and people.”

With a quick flick of the mercenary’s wrist, another gash welled with blood across Estel’s skin, the soft flesh under his chin opened in a shallow wound. “You may be right, but my revenge has come either way, has it not? His son will die, and his life will be tainted with grief. And I will still have all of eternity to revel in his anguish.”

A thud outside the slab door terminated their conversation. “Ament?”

The mercenary leant his forehead against the back of the Ranger’s hair, his voice so low that Aragorn could barely hear the softly spoken words. “Death or immortality. This is the moment of decision, Strider. I will make you a promise: do not try my patience. Do not try to save the Prince and I will spare your and the other Elves’ lives. Agreed?”

Aragorn lied without compunction, “Yes.”

“Good,” the mercenary whispered ere he raised his voice to address those outside. “We are ready. Do you have the Prince?”

“We do. Jalian will open the door.”

Shortly thereafter the slab moved, its thick corpus revealing the darkened room outside the cell, lit only by the faint luminescence of the dying torch in the wall stones. His brothers stood with the oblique form of the Prince between them, and Jalian huffed with exertion to keep the trapdoor ajar on the opposite side of the room. Aragorn looked for some sign from his brothers, some indication of their plan, but they avoided his eyes. _No, Valar, please do not let them be consenting to Ament’s fiats._

“Give us the Ranger,” Elladan stated, his hand seemingly holding Legolas from falling to the ground.

Ament sniggered, the blade again jerking across Aragorn’s skin in more painful but superficial cuts. “Not until I have the Prince. And not until I am assured that you will not follow us.” Although Ament’s eyes did not deviate from their focus on the twins, the leader’s next comment was obviously pointed at Jalian. “Keep the door open, idiot, or I swear I will hew your hideous head from your shoulders.” To the twins he instructed, “You, my friends, will bring the Princeling in here to make our trade.” Elladan and Elrohir exchanged an expressionless glance, though to the healer it said much.

_They did not expect this. Please do not follow his demands, brothers._

“Come now, before I change my mind.”

“No.” Tightening his hold on the dazed Wood-Elf, Elladan argued, “We’ve no reason to relinquish the Prince if you will only entrap us in the cell to meet a slow death.”

Guffawing so piercingly that Aragorn flinched, Ament retorted, “You will do as I say if you value the Ranger’s life. Besides, Jalian will release you once I have left with our Elfling.” When the twins hesitated, the leader twisted his dagger into Estel’s throat, the sharp point digging mercilessly into the thin flesh over his jugular vein. “Do not tempt me.” Estel could feel the resulting bead of blood dripping down his neck.

Stepping forward as though to halt the leader’s motion, Elrohir granted, “Fine. But do not harm the Ranger further.”

_No, Elrohir, what are you doing?_ He trusted his brothers implicitly, but their actions confused him, and he yearned to warn them not to trust Jalian, not to place Legolas in this peril. The blade at his throat stayed his objections before he could even phrase them. At Ament’s indication, little more than a stinging jab at his neck, the Ranger tread backwards with the leader, allowing enough space for the Noldor to drag the injured Wood-Elf with them into the cell, though they never removed their intense gaze from the lead mercenary. All were ensconced within the cell, save for Jalian, the door still thankfully ajar, when Ament began his snide laughter anew.

“Toss the Princeling this way.”

Observing with horror, Aragorn noted the carelessness with which his brothers threw the Wood-Elf to the floor in front of him. _They cannot be serious. They cannot trust Jalian or Ament to let us out afterward, and they certainly cannot believe my short years to be worth Legolas’ immortal life._

Ament ordered, “Pick him up, Strider. We can’t let his Highness lay on the dirty floor, can we?” Flexing his knees in cautious timing with the mercenary’s so as not to slit his throat on the blade Ament still held, Estel grasped Legolas’ arms, pulling the Wood-Elf from the floor and to his side.

For a brief moment, the Silvan and Ranger’s eyes met, and it was then that the healer wondered idly: _Is this not Legolas?_ Abruptly, Aragorn found himself flying towards the waiting, open arms of his Elven brothers, which held him close to them as Ament began to snicker hysterically.

“Thranduilion and I have much to discuss,” the leader snarled, his scowl manifest on his barely visible visage as he wrenched the Wood-Elf to him, an act that Aragorn only just turned to see. Bumping his groin against his captive’s hip, Ament adjoined, “Or perhaps Ramlin said all that needed to be said?”

It was merely the twin’s firm grasp on him that kept the Ranger from leaping forward, heedless of the eventualities, to rip the mercenary’s degenerate heart from his chest. _He will not suffer their vile touch again._ But Elladan and Elrohir’s grip did not give, and Aragorn watched with increasing horror as the Prince was pulled from the room forthwith.

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_I should not have let him do this,_ the Wood-Elf reprimanded himself as he heard Ament’s foul words. He waited in the shadows, his bow drawn, prepared to kill the mercenary – or his sentry should he not be able to fell the leader. _I should not have told them I could do this._ It was not his abilities that he doubted, nor his physical strength: it was the doubt of his pragmatic mind telling him that it should be him, not Tirn, who placed himself at risk. His sentinel’s words had swayed him, and Legolas had been deterred from taking the course Tirn now undertook by the sentry’s reasoning; for indeed, a Prince’s life was not his own, and Legolas knew he had made the right choice, even as the bile rose in his throat with his perceived disloyalty. _Look this way, bastard. I want you to see who has shot the arrow that kills you._

“Shut the door, Jalian.” In the back of the Elf’s mind, Ament’s directions registered, and he feared that the disfigured mercenary would betray them, but foremost in his thoughts were his recognition of the events around him, and the exceptionally faint shadow of the human hauling his sentry into the hallway. A screech, followed by the jolting slam of the slab door, confirmed that Jalian had followed his boss’ command.

Their plan had been borne of fear; it had been hastily thrown together in the echo of Ament’s deleterious laughter. However, when Ament crossed the threshold, Legolas reveled in the sensation of the fletching of Tirn’s arrow running past his fingers as he let the projectile fly. He knew the arrow would embed in the only target available to him in the scant time he was allowed, for the Prince’s vision turned unexpectedly dark when the force of the slate door meeting its timber and stone encasing sent reverberations throughout the unstable tunnel, and the ceiling began to collapse around him.

  
  


 


	22. Chapter 22

It commenced with the stone slab directly outside the door Ament and Tirn had just exited, the room exterior to the cell where Strider and his brothers were trapped. The thick stone had buckled with the magnitude of the trapdoor’s closure, its supposedly adamantine corpulence not enough to withstand the mass of forest floor above it, nor the abuse of time and lack of upkeep. As it broke, Legolas observed the dark green fletching of his sentry’s arrow fly through the air, and its tip embed within his target’s back with a crystal-clear thump. Despite the grievous wound the archer had inflicted, he watched his sentry and the mercenaries’ leader run instinctually towards the scarcely lit end of the tunnel, dodging the plummeting stone tablets in their effort for survival and rounding the corner before Legolas could manage another shot. His vision was soon obscured by the dense clouds of falling dirt.

_My arrow struck him. There is hope._ The Prince watched the collapse with astonished horror, his disengagement that which only those of whom believe their end are inexorably upon them are capable. His hands fell to his sides, carelessly dropping Tirn’s beautifully carved bow to the ground to be buried under the quickly deteriorating ceiling, and he gawked at the morbid vista afore him. _Valar. If we are to die in this debacle, please let Ament be caught, also,_ he prayed.

He pushed his crouching form further back into the mound of dirt and rock behind him in an effort to avoid the blitz of raining debris, heedless of his muscle’s protest to such movement and the radiating agony of his legs, which barely held his weight as he scrambled backwards to evade the falling stones. He need not have worried. Legolas had positioned himself to take his shot at the end of the tunnel where the stone canopy had already fallen long ago: only a massive mantle of dirt rained upon him as the earth rumbled on all sides. He promptly became entrapped in the soil and small stones, unable to run after Ament and Tirn.

Legolas lingered as he was for only a few moments of stunned immobility, covered under an immense heap of what was once Mirkwood’s foundation, until the pattering and clattering of the collapse stopped around him, though the cave in continued further down the hall. He attempted to spring upwards out of the mire, the need for air finally driving him into venturing out of the safe, albeit smothering cocoon of earth over him. _It hit, I am sure of it._

He could not take the chance that the arrow had not felled his mark, that Ament and Tirn would be out of the tunnel, and that the mercenary would have his cursed immortality. The loose soil and rocks hindered him from eluding the pile, as the ever-shifting, heavy mound impeded the Prince from gaining the hold to be free of its mutable snare. _It should have been me,_ Legolas despaired, striving to reach the surface of his dirt tomb. _Ament cannot have escaped, not with Tirn weaponless and possibly injured nearby._ His lungs burned and he suddenly did not know which way was up, for his efforts at release had been erratic, and he feared he was merely burrowing through an endless supply of earth. _It may have all fallen in on me. There may not be a surface._

His desperation induced his evermore frenzied motions. When his seeking hand finally broke free only to be grasped by another, Legolas did not care whose rough intervention it might be that towed him out of his earthen grave and into the stale but welcoming air.

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The mercenary no longer held him, the dagger at his throat had been discarded thoughtlessly in the absolute fear both Elf and human felt. The two had fled from the tumbling rock and soil as the ceiling fell successively, trailing them in their wake out of the toppling passageway. _He cannot escape. I cannot let him leave the tunnel._ Shortly ahead of the sentry raced Ament, slowed but not deterred by the arrow jutting out disturbingly from the middle of his back. Even in the dim light, the running sentry could see the rapidly discoloring tunic turning a gratifying shade of red, indicating his Prince’s shot had been accurate, piercing the human’s lungs in a lethal display of Legolas’ sophisticated marksmanship. Still the leader ran, however, and so Tirn gave chase, unwilling to cease lest he lose the human, disregarding his desire to see to his Prince and friends’ welfare.

_It must be destroyed. We cannot have given our lives only for another to obtain the goblet, even should it not be Ament who absconds with it._

And yet, Tirn hesitated, sparing a fleeting glance back into the thick air that was turbid with rubble, the vagrant remnants that were once the subterranean floor of Mirkwood, looking for any sign of life in the darkened tunnel. _Prince Legolas. Let him be well._ His vacillation exacted upon the sentry a hard levy, for his inattentiveness and faltering step kept Tirn from noting the dropping stone tablet until it was too late. He had naught but the time to throw himself forward, effectively escaping the heavy slab’s weight falling upon his head, but not entirely eluding the tile altogether.

When his body hit the ground, the pain of his bare chest thrown harshly onto the sharp rocks and roots under him was nothing in comparison to the agony of the stone slab hitting his legs. The edge of the ceiling tile crashed down upon his thighs before it tipped, slamming downward upon the remainder of his lower limbs. Even with the deafening sound of the tunnel’s collapse, Tirn imagined he could hear the sound of his bone breaking, though the snap of one of his thighbones recorded only vaguely in his mind, for his attention was still on Ament, who had forsaken his captive and did not look back as he ran around a curve towards the passageway’s exit. Reflexively, the sentinel curled in upon the pain, shielding his head from the unremitting supply of rock and soil that still pelted his prone form.

_Let it not end like this,_ the sentry pled.

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Oblivious to anything except his flight, the leader was surprised when he stumbled, falling flat on his face and out of breath. The occasional roar of the walls around him signified that the worst of the cave in was spent, though it may well begin all over again, should the shoddy dwelling be provoked once more. Ament fisted his hands in the soil and rock around him, trying to calm his irregular breathing. _The goblet._ He could not find the strength to search for the means to his concupiscent, covetous vendetta, and so he lay in the dust, listening. At any moment, he expected the tunnel to be filled with the echoes of Elven feet, or Jalian’s footsteps, seeking him for their own revenge or reckoning. _Get up,_ he demanded of himself, _you have what you have desired. You’ve only to make use of it._ Lightless and eerily quiet save the intermittent clang of rock upon rock or the soft rustle of falling dirt in the aftermath of the downfall of Melfren’s lair, the tunnel offered no warning that he was being pursued. _They will come for you if they still live. Rise._

He gathered his hate and greed, enjoying the adrenaline rush that accompanied his internal bolstering of his rancor. As he pushed his weary body into sitting, the mercenary became instantaneously aware that something was amiss. With the change in position came a nauseating pain, and the abrupt loss of his ability to draw in air. Experimentally, the mercenary felt with his hands along his chest, and then his back, trying to find the source of his pain. When his fingers found the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back, its head buried deep within his flesh, the leader struggled not to laugh, knowing he could ill afford the expenditure of air. _There must’ve been another Elf, or Jalian has finally learned how to wield a bow._ In his flight, Ament had not felt the arrow hit him, but now the leader realized that for all his efforts, he had not yet obtained his goal and would die. The dark wrapped itself around him, suffocating the mercenary with his own mortality. _Eternal darkness. You will die here in this tunnel with these accursed Elves if you do not rise. At least see them dead, Ament. Do not let them live to enjoy their immortality if you cannot have yours._

Although he could see nothing, the leader groped the earth around him, seeking the golden object desperately. He felt along the sod walls, unsure of where he was heading, while he fervently sought the cool gold of the simple goblet. Instead, he found that he was outside a room. _Doran. Where is he?_ Ament did not know the whereabouts or allegiance of his brother’s friend, but the anticipation of an ally inspired him. Crawling through the debris, he entered the room, gladdened that the ceiling had remained intact and his way was clear. His knee knocked against something, causing it to roll across the floor, and the leader reached out to stop its progress, noting with relief the oil soaked end of one of the torches Doran had prepared for their earlier exploration of the tunnel. Ament attempted to stand: flashes of bright light blazed before his eyes, expediting his urgent survey with their promise of his upcoming demise. Rigidity in his chest made it ever harder for the mercenary to draw air into his punctured lungs, and he stumbled from the dizziness this malady caused, tripping over a small chair. He remained upright by an unforeseen supporter: a short table halted his fall. _This is the room where we imprisoned the Prince,_ he determined, feeling the inexplicably small table and chair with his hands, the diminutive likes of which had not been in any of the other rooms. _I am not far from the exit._

Ament wavered. _I will die if I do not find the goblet. It is the only way._ However, he did not know how much longer he could persevere. Pulling a flint from his tunic pocket, the crazed mercenary set about lighting the torch. _I will last. I will find the goblet, and I will use one of those damned Elves to see through my plan._ He drew his sword, his wobbly hold of it a poor threat to any who may come upon him, but he did not fear death – he feared death without revenge. _There may be another Elf in the tunnel, or Jalian may have let the others loose._

Turning to the door, the ruthless mercenary let his laughter take hold of him. Just outside the entrance, sitting charmingly amidst the fallen rubble, was his sought-after goblet.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Ranger was cloaked in Elven flesh: the twins had thrown Aragorn to his knees at the first thunderous disturbance, and before the Ranger could dissent, the twins had wrapped their bodies over his to protect him against the perceived danger. Even after the noise had ceased, when the sounds of devastation had given way to a desultory din that resounded from outside the cell, Elladan and Elrohir did not loosen their hold on the human until Estel commented, “Let me breathe, brothers.”

His voice was muffled, as his head was pressed between his brothers’ chests, but the twins heard him, for they released him soon after. The mortared walls and ceiling of the cell were blessedly intact: nothing but dust had fallen upon them during the harrying time spent listening to the cave in outside their chamber. Having found Ament’s abandoned torch, they at least had some light by which to worry now that it was relit.

Elrohir sat beside him on the stone floor, tilting the Ranger’s head backwards to inspect the wounds to Aragorn’s neck, while Elladan contemplated the trapdoor cautiously. _How has this come to be?_

Unable to stifle his indignant pursuit of why his brothers had handed the Prince over to his tormentor and the many questions their very presence evoked, the Ranger asked in a voice broken with pain, “How did you find us? Why did you trade Legolas? What have you done, my brothers? Jalian is not a friend to us; we are trapped in this cell while Ament may escape with the Prince, if they are not themselves trapped in whatever disaster has occurred outside.”

“Quiet, Estel,” Elrohir demanded, holding his brother’s jaw forcefully shut while he finished his examination. Content that the Ranger had not sustained anything but shallow gashes to his neck, he added mystifyingly, “It was not the Prince we traded, but his sentry.”

_Sentry? So it was not Legolas._

His impression of the Elf whose eyes had briefly met his during the exchange was confirmed. “Then there are others who can aid us?”

His hope was slaughtered when Elrohir explained, “Nay, it was only he and us looking for you and the Prince, but Legolas was outside, at ready to fell Ament should he and Tirn leave the room.” The Noldo Lord sighed and exchanged a doleful look with his twin, who had taken to running his hands along the timbers encasing the trapdoor in his search for a way out. “We had not anticipated Ament’s desire to make our trade in here, for we did not believe him to trust Jalian to let him out. I only hope that Legolas’ aim was true.”

Aragorn was bereft of understanding of what was occurring; too much had happened without his presence. He knew why his brothers had been willing to make the trade: they loved him and would do whatever it took to see him safe, but not without some assurance that the goblet would not be used. The Prince had been that insurance, though none could have anticipated the cave in would happen just then. Without being told, the Ranger knew that Legolas had likely offered himself in the trade. _No doubt, Legolas’ sentry fulfilled his duty by keeping the Prince safe,_ Estel thought with much guilt. That another Wood-Elf had been placed in danger and that yet another immortal life had likely been sacrificed for his weighed heavily upon his conscience. He was pitifully uninformed, and he would stay that way until time could be spared for him and his brothers to converse. _We may have time aplenty if no one has survived outside._

Elladan tapped on the trapdoor, testing its strength, or its propensity to reenacting another collapse, as he called, “Jalian… Legolas?”

As thankful as he was that the twins had arrived to aid him and the Prince, that his brothers were now to die with him in the cell only brought the Ranger more guilt. _First Legolas, and now my own brothers will die for my foolishness. And the Prince’s sentry._ Elrohir’s prodding of his wounded chest caused the Ranger to cry out, pushing the twin’s hands from his burnt flesh as he gasped for air.

“Valar, Estel. What has he done to you?” Elrohir whispered, more to himself than to his brethren. The Noldo ransacked his pack until he had found what he sought, the phial of despicable liquid that Aragorn immediately recognized by smell as that which would kill his pain, but also render him useless.

“No, Elrohir,” he told the Noldo, incapable of drawing enough air into his lungs to continue his refusal. Unwillingly, the twin replaced the phial with a concerned frown, choosing instead a tin in which a thick paste of herbs was stored. Through his tunic had the flaming branch burned, and as Elrohir pulled it up to reach the injury, the cloth stuck to the charred skin of his chest and belly and the Ranger could not help but to cry aloud again when Elrohir yanked the tunic free.

"I am sorry, Estel,” the Noldo lamented. “I did not mean to hurt you. We used the last of our water to paint Tirn with mud for bruises; else, I would wash these burns, brother. For now, this will relieve the pain, but it will sting at first.” Aragorn’s nausea returned as the ache of his burnt flesh was revived in vivid detail. The sweet smelling paste soon numbed his skin, however, which was a welcomed sensation.

Elladan knelt beside his brothers, eager to see the damage done to the human ere Elrohir bandaged the wound with clean linen. “Ada and King Thranduil will never let you and Legolas play together again, since you can’t play nice.” The Ranger snorted at the uncalled for jest, and then immediately regretted it when his movement pulled at his wounds, which were unbearably tight.

Elrohir glared at his twin with mock austerity. “Do not encourage him, Elladan.”

“I doubt Legolas will ever desire to see me again after this travesty is over.” _If it is not already over for him,_ he added to himself. “He has suffered much.”

Standing and walking to the trapdoor, Elladan pounded harder on the slab of stone barring them from their freedom, Legolas, and the other responsibilities that Aragorn felt were his to shoulder. To his surprise, a voice answered the incessant knocking; Jalian’s words were a mere murmur to him, though he knew that to the twins it was as loud as the falling ceiling had been to him earlier, “Stop already, mate. Don’t knock so hard. I’ve no wish to dig my way out of another cave in, thank ye very much.”

_Perhaps there is some good in Jalian, yet._

Calling, “Let us out, Jalian. Open the door,” Elladan aided Elrohir in picking Aragorn up from the floor.

_Please let us out,_ the Ranger hoped of the mercenary, unsure that Jalian would comply.

Another voice, a broken and quieter voice, responded, “Not yet. We need to find a way to keep the door from slamming as hard as it did before. I must agree with Jalian, I’ve no desire to be mired in the ceiling yet again.”

_Legolas. Praise Ilúvatar._ The twins were as relieved as the Ranger was that the Prince was alive.

“The bedding, get the bedding.” When his brothers stared at him, uncomprehending, the Ranger pointed towards the master’s bedroom. “Therein lays a bed. We can use the bedding to cushion the door’s closing once we are freed.” They left him standing at the trapdoor and hurried to the other room. The Ranger shouted to the human and Elf outside, “Are you both well?”

Jalian replied, “I’m alright. The ceiling barely fell in here, mostly just outside in the tunnel’s where it came down.”

“And you, Legolas?” He heard his brothers coming through the doorway with piles of moldering bedding in their arms, the mostly rotted straw mattress dragging behind them.

Silence met his question. Thinking they had not heard him, Estel made to shout again, but the mercenary answered, “He’s not here. Took my short sword and ran down the hall. Off to find Ament and the other Elf, I reckon.”

_Sweet Eru._

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He tried pulling his legs free from the thick tile that lay on it: the pain of his broken bone cutting into his muscle halted that attempt. He tried to dig under his legs, to make a groove in the dirt floor so that he could free his limbs: the earth he removed was only replaced by more earth, the shifty soil would only slide back, and his arrangement on his stomach did not allow him the mobility to reach far enough to dig the dirt away for this effort to be of much use. _Wonderful._ Tirn laid his head on the ground. _I should have let the stone fall on my head. Idiot._

Bouncing rays of light danced along the walls, and it took the sentry by surprise to realize that someone was coming down the tunnel. As no one had passed him, and by Legolas' account, no other mercenaries were left, Tirn knew it could only be Ament. He scrambled to find a weapon; he had left his bow and quiver with the Prince, and his sword and dagger had been left with the twins so that Ament would believe him to be the Prince. _How is he still alive? The Prince’s arrow struck true._ Frantically, he searched the ground for anything he might use as a weapon only to find nothing but dirt and rock. _If only I were a Hobbit, these rocks would be useful as defense,_ he thought testily to himself.

“I was hoping you’d still be alive, Thranduilion.” Ament stumbled around the curve ahead, the torch bobbing carelessly, while in the other hand he held tight a sword in his unsteady grip. “I would’ve liked to keep you around for a while but I suppose…” The man faltered, his jaw slack as he moved his torch closer to the sentry. “You’re not the Prince.” Tirn said nothing. The human repeated, “You’re not the Prince. You…” Ament dropped his sword, appearing on the verge of either tears or laughter as he fumbled at his belt, pulling free the goblet. “Nay, you’re not the Prince, but you’ll do,” the leader snickered, falling to his knees just out of Tirn’s reach. “You’ll do nicely.”

_I’ll not quench his blood thirst,_ the sentinel vowed, twisting his incarcerated legs without further regard to the scrape of his broken bone within his flesh. _I must get free._

He could see the mercenary’s back as Ament leapt towards him, torch forgotten in a pile of soil as he brandished the goblet like a weapon. The leader was bleeding profusely from the arrow that still protruded, his belabored breathing and rickety movements evidence of his oncoming demise. The Noldor had not elaborated exactly what would happen should the mercenary have his taste of immortality but Tirn imagined that Melfren, should the fable prove true, would not succumb so easily to an arrow wound. Even as he turned his entrapped body to avoid the nearing mercenary, the Wood-Elf knew he could not evade the human: he was in no position to fight the leader, weaponless and injured. The goblet struck him hard across the back of his head, and again, until he could feel the skin of his scalp break and his vision swam sickeningly. Still he could not free himself, try as he might.

Tirn shoved the man to gain time to try his escape again. The human fell backwards onto the flaming torch, and the sentry was briefly satisfied upon hearing the leader’s howl of agony and the hiss of the mercenary’s backside against the flame. He did not waste time enjoying his satisfaction or pondering on his crippling worry about his Prince and friends, but began once more his vain attempt at freeing his legs from their heavy confines. _He cannot bring Melfren back. I will not be his sacrifice._ Ament’s shriek became convulsive coughing, and the mercenary’s body floundered in his endeavor to remove himself from the potentially searing pain of the fire and to regain his breath. By a strength emerging from desperation and fright, the mercenary vaulted forward again, pelting the sentry across the face with the goblet.

This time Tirn was not so quick to recover, and his head smacked the soil floor before he was aware that he had been hit. Ament made good use of this lapse; he seized his sword from the floor only to stab the sentry through the hand, temporarily impaling the sentry’s limb into the deep mass of dirt on which he lay, ere the leader pulled the blade free. Taking the goblet up again, Ament continued his assault, unreservedly merciless as he beat the felled sentry with the solid object repeatedly in the head and shoulders.

“Your companions will wither away in their cell, like the Prince will fade.” Unable to move as he fought unconsciousness, much less answer the mercenary’s jibe if he had at all desired to, Tirn's body lay still though he moved his head to glare at the mercenary. His bottomless, aged sapphire eyes bore into Ament’s such that the mercenary shifted his gaze, preferring instead to stare at the Wood-Elf’s bleeding head wounds than the uncompromising glower of the sentry. “It matters not, Elf, for I will have all of eternity to find the Prince, if he still lives. And if he does not, then Thranduil can be destroyed in other ways.” Cackling, and then coughing, the mercenary picked the sentry’s head from the floor by the hair at the nape of Tirn's neck. “I suppose I should thank you, Elf, for your immortality,” Ament taunted the beaten, vertiginous Wood-Elf. "But you and your kind owe me this."

This being said, the mercenary drew his sword across Tirn’s neck, opening the sallow skin over the sentry's jugular vein with his blade until the sanguine, silvery fluid that pulsed through his victim’s body spilled forth in a torrid rush.

He closed his eyes. He did not know whether it was from the blackening trauma to his skull or from the blood loss, but the sentry found that he did not care. He had tried. He had given his life.

_It could have been the Prince lying here,_ he comforted himself.

The cool, uneven rim of what he knew was the goblet was pressed to his throat, and into it drained his life. He dared not open his eyes, for he did not wish to see what would come of Ament’s foul interference with Ilúvatar’s will. _Mayhap someone lives yet,_ he thought of his friends. _Mayhap there is still hope._ When the goblet was filled to Ament's satisfaction, the sentry heard, rather than saw, the gluttonous imbibing of his blood by the dying mercenary, as he heard the distant, slow approach of another in the long passageway. _Someone still lives,_ he thought as his mind faded into unconsciousness, faintly smiling in his hopes that the someone would be his Prince.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Ament downed the goblet’s contents greedily, relished the salty taste of the precious ambrosia with abandon, and dropped his sword to the ground to hold the legendary goblet lovingly in both hands. As he drank the scant supply he had drained from his captive, he hungered for more of the prurient fulfillment this single act gave him and the unholy anticipation of what would transpire now. The leader wondered as he licked the fluid from his lips, _Is this enough? Mayhap a bit more wouldn’t hurt._ Looking into the dregs remaining in his goblet, the mercenary tilted his head back and tipped the cup, draining the last into his open, ravenous mouth.

The mercenary sat slowly on the ground beside the Elf, whose eyes were closed and breathing low. The goblet had barely been filled halfway; he had swallowed not even half a pint of Elven blood, but much more spilt from the open wound on the fallen Elf’s neck, a gushing reserve of immortality-granting fluid. _No need to squander what remains, should I need more._ Tearing a strip from his dirty tunic, the mercenary wound it expertly around the Elf’s neck, and seeing the creature’s eyelids flicker at his rough handling, smiled. _Just in case._ Whether the Elf died or lived, Ament had his blood and the means for more. Unsure whether he had the energy to rise, he sat and waited.

_The other Elves or Jalian may be coming this way soon._ Earnestly, the mercenary listened for any sound of upcoming danger, indecisive in his next endeavor. _Now that I’ve completed my undertaking, I’ve naught else to do but enjoy it._ Idly, the leader picked up the torch, which still lay in the earth sputtering its oily flame just where he had dropped it. He lodged it upright within the dirt beside him, lighting the tunnel with its jaundiced orange glow. _It is no matter. Let the Elves come._ Looking to his blade, the mercenary pondered as to whether he should leave or see Strider and his saviors dead.

His plan was accomplished, his revenge won, and his life soon to be immortal, though none of this had been achieved exactly as he had intended. _Thranduil will likely never know what has happened to his son, nor anyone learn of the death of these other pointy-eared interlopers, or even the meddling human, but I will know._ A single chuckle escaped him, and he stifled the desire to continue rejoicing when the urge to cough reminded him of his injury, the pain from which he no longer felt as severely. _I cannot now seek the Elven King’s fortunes as I had, since I do not have the Prince, but that is of no importance, either. I can find another way, or find another affluent idiot to force atonement from… for my benefit, of course._

It had not been easy; he had lost the last of his family, the few men in Middle Earth whose company he could withstand, and he had almost lost his own life, but now he sat, waiting, although for what he wasn’t certain. It would be folly to leave without making sure that he drank the proper amount of Elven blood, the quantity of which had not been included in the telling and retellings of the goblet’s legend. Watching the Elf before him, he saw the already pallid complexion of his sacrifice was turning ashen with the trauma of the loss of blood, a loss that still gradually seeped from the makeshift bandage even as he watched.

Ament dipped his finger in the sanguine liquid pooling on the soft soil at the creature’s throat. As he smeared the blood and mud across his fingertips, the mercenary paid close attention to any sounds coming from the tunnel. _Where is Doran?_ He longed for the tall archer to appear, his nerves tried by his impatience for some sign that the goblet was working, and his desire for an ally resurfacing. _Jalian has never been of much use. He was too easily led by his fear to comply with the Elves, but Doran may have been worthy enough to keep._

He looked behind him as he pondered, unconsciously looking for the blond mercenary, to realize that the haze had left his vision. While before it was as if he were looking through murky, dark waters, an indication of his own injury and ill health, now he could see beyond what even his normal vision had ever allowed him. He could not view past the curve in the passageway; however, the tunnel itself was illumined by the scarce light such that he could ascertain each pebble and root betwixt the timbers in the shoddy walls. Turning his head to view the depths of the tunnel from which he had fled, even the farthest reaches could he see until the passage curved again, where the flaming orb of the torchlight did not span. _The legend said nothing of this._ The mercenary gazed around him, thrilled at the evidence that the goblet was eliciting some reaction.

The effect was subtle but once he took notice he could discern its presence within him. Vigor was spreading warmly through him. Ament stared in wonder at his arms as though he could see the manifesting potency through the cloth and skin. He became suddenly aware of a deeper consistency to the bloody muck that tainted his hands: he was able to perceive each individual grain of the soil as it slid between his fingers. He let loose a rich, hearty laugh of satisfaction that was nothing like his usual sinister snigger. _This is an unforeseen boon to life eternal._ Scooping up more of the blood and mud, he let it fall from his hand slowly, reveling in the sensation of the muck sliding from his fingers and the sound of it hitting the ground. _Is this how the immortals sense?_

Looking about him again at the ordinary but suddenly majestic construction of the tunnel, his eyes flitting from pebble to pebble in wonder, he rubbed his hands absently on his leggings only to be pulled from the sight to the sensation of his hand across the fabric. Ament smirched the filth in an arc around his thigh, entranced by the vibrant contrast of the wet, reddish ebony stain on his otherwise dry leggings. The coppery smell of the blood and rich earth held him spellbound, and his hand’s languid palpation of his skin and muscle impelled the mercenary to moan in corporeal excitation.

Giggling in childish amusement at these simple pleasures, the mesmerized mercenary grabbed another handful of the rubicund mud as though to paint himself with it, but then his eyes lit upon an especially glossy pebble scintillating in the pool of Elven blood by his feet. He made to seize it, pleased by its shine, when the fallen Elf twitched in his deathlike tranquility, the creature’s brow knitting with some unknown thought or with the throes of his demise. With his soiled fingers, Ament touched the Elf’s forehead tentatively. The Elf did not awaken, nor did he find any comfort from the mercenary’s contact, but Ament groaned. _He is dying. I have killed him._

Stifling grief burned through the leader. _He is beautiful._ Ament caressed the silky, knotted hair of the Elf, his touch not one of lust, but of awe. Never had the mercenary experienced beauty without desiring to own it, or if he could not possess, to destroy it. _I have killed him._ Ament’s disturbed psyche dominated him, the destruction he had wreaked to obtain this moment of what was to be absolute joy had wilted to utmost sorrow in the wake of the goblet’s odd effect on him. Pressing his fingers to the Elf’s throat, the mercenary sought a pulse, a sign that the Elf still lived. He found one, weak and irregular, but became lost in the silken skin on which his digits rested, and promptly forgot his concern for the Wood-Elf. Ament ran his fingers along the Elf’s flesh, admiring the creature for the tactual bliss it gave him until some part of his mind, inebriated as it was by the handiwork of the goblet, sternly reminded him, _Listen._

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The passageway’s darkness impeded his progress through the mounds of dirt and stone, and several times the Prince was forced to dig sightlessly through portions of the tunnel that had completely collapsed, offering little or no room above or around the debris for him to crawl. _Let my arrow have struck Ament true. Let him be buried under this chaos._ That his sentry may also be covered under the soil on which he moved distressed the Wood-Elf, but these ponderings he pushed aside, along with the persistent pain of his many injuries and the gnawing desolation that ate at him. His current impasse offered him little optimism of burrowing through the earth that barred his way, for the timbers of the walls were broken, caught amidst the stone of the ceiling to form an indecipherable barrier through which he could not seem to find an opening. Sitting back on his heels, Legolas rubbed his dirty face with his grimy hands.

His borrowed sword lay on the ground beside him, begging to be used, to free Ament of his scheming head. The Prince dug through the dirt, hoping to find a single gap in the impediment through which he might make his way, but with no torchlight by which to work, Legolas could only grope blindly through the entangled disarray. _Please let me not be too late._ Frustration and fear ran rampant within him, fueling him to continue his vain efforts while his body and mind beseeched him to stop, to lie in the soft dirt, to die. But he knew he was not far from the entrance, and Mirkwood and his father were still endangered, not to mention Tirn, to whom the Prince knew he owed his life.

Abruptly, the soil gave way at his unrelenting prodding, and the short mound of dirt upon which he sat slid forwards as his hand finally broke free one of the timbers barring him from continuing. His removing the restraining plank of wood loosened much of what blocked his way, and timbers, stones, loam, and Elf went crashing forwards in a small avalanche down the mound of dirt to the tunnel’s floor. Moving with the momentum of the falling wreckage, the Prince managed to avoid the tumbling debris, and was fortunately on the other side of his obstacle. He slid to a halt on his hands and knees, only partially buried under the soil.

_Who is giggling?_ The question was pointless; the Wood-Elf recognized the sound of Ament’s insanity. _Sweet Eru, where is the sword?_ A modicum of light lit the area, originating from the same direction as the laughter, and the Elf’s keen eyes detected the blade’s shine next to him. He grabbed the hilt and leapt to his feet, nearly falling to the floor again as his legs quavered under him. _Move, Legolas._ Heedlessly, he sprinted down the passageway, cajoling his weakened, injured limbs into submission to carry him forward. _Ament cannot escape. He cannot be allowed to leave with the goblet._ Underlying these thoughts was his growing anxiety for his sentry’s welfare.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I am no Dwarf or craftsman, but I believe the bedding will absorb the impact, if we can release the door slowly, as well,” Elladan stated, running his hands once more over the casing to the trapdoor. “Come, let us try.” Without being told, Elrohir joined his twin at the door with an armful of bedding, while Aragorn stood at ready holding the straw mattress.

_Let this work,_ Elladan pled, his worried gaze meeting Estel’s to see the same fear reflected in the Ranger’s grey eyes. _We cannot leave Tirn and Legolas to face Ament alone._ The Noldo refused to consider that the gracious sentry, who he and Elrohir had quickly befriended during their journey and search, might not have survived the collapse. The Prince’s rapid departure to find Tirn and Ament had not given them the time to inquire what had happened in their absence, and Elladan hoped it had been Ament, and not Tirn, who had been Legolas’ target. _If Legolas even had the chance to let his arrow fly._

“I’m set, mate. Just hurry, will ya? This damn door is hard to keep open,” Jalian called from outside.

Screeching and whining at its opening, the slab door scraped across the timbers in which it was set, and ere it even opened to its full extent, which was still only halfway, Elrohir threw his bundle between the casing and the door and immediately reached for Elladan’s collection of moldering bedding. After placing the straw mattress in the doorway, the twins ushered the injured Ranger out of the cell, following close behind him. When the brothers were free, Elladan dashed to Jalian, taking hold of the lever also so that together they could allow the door to close slowly, and thereby avoid the slab slamming into the timbers any harder than necessary.

“Gently, Jalian,” Elladan instructed. The Elves and humans watched the gradually closing door with paramount trepidation; Elladan could smell Jalian’s fear and sweat, and the mercenary trembled with the burden of keeping the door open. As the stone met their makeshift obstruction, the scarred human’s hands slipped from the lever, and Elladan, unprepared to accept the entire weight needed to keep the door ajar, felt the wooden handle slide from his own hands. Jalian gasped beside him.

The shrieking slab of stone collided with the coverlets and mattress, sending a cloud of mildew and rotted down into the air as the door smashed shut, its impact somewhat muffled, though not entirely. Rumbling and shimmying, the outside passageway groaned its protest but naught else. Elladan released a breath he was not aware he had been holding.

“Sorry bout that, mate,” the mercenary whispered, never removing his attention from the doorway where all was extraordinarily still. “But no harm done, eh?”

“Thank Ilúvatar for that good fortune,” Elrohir whispered in turn, pulling Estel with him as the band of Elves and humans walked cautiously to the door leading to the tunnel, not yet relinquishing their apprehension that the tunnel’s ceiling might fall again.

At his first glimpse of the damage the collapse inflicted, Elladan despaired, _There is no way that Ament or Tirn has made it from this mess. And if they have, Legolas will need our help._ The cave in blocked the passageway in many places with heaping piles of earth and stone, baring the thick, gnarled roots of the trees overhead.

Aragorn must have held the same thoughts about the sentry and Prince, for he stepped away from Elrohir to dart down the hallway, trailed closely by the others.

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The increased sensitivity to his surroundings deluged the mercenary with an overload of intoxicatingly useless, but pleasurable information, while his ability to comprehend this flood of stimuli remained slow, his mind unable to cope with the vivid perceptions. He sat still, closing his eyes and refusing to move his seeking hands so that he could allay his mind’s saturation with sensation. He concentrated. Then he heard it; amongst the lingering, briny flavor in his mouth, battling for his awareness, and finally superceding the feeling of the remaining mud on his stilled fingertips, came a sound so distinct that Ament hurriedly gained his feet, sure the source of the noise must be near. _Someone comes._ Panic jettisoned through him as vivid as any of the sensations he had hitherto experienced.

The overflow of information did not cease while Ament fumbled ineptly in the dirt for his dropped sword. As the sound grew louder, the mercenary panicked, _I cannot fight, not like this._ The abrupt, jerky actions that shifted the arrow in his back as he made to locate his sword brought bright pinpoints of pain to dance before his eyes, blinding him from the inundation of myriad curiosities around him that he could not help but to peruse, even in his panic. Everything called for his attention, distracting him from his fear.

Much like his eyes were drawn to the intense visual spectacle afore him, his hands, too, did not care to obey him or continue their search for his blade but worked of their own accord to sift through the fallen rock and dirt leisurely, bringing him undesired ecstasy at the fondling of mere soil. Ament could not think clearly, so overrun was he by the acuteness of his ill begotten, heightened senses. Therefore, the desperate mercenary followed not his mind, but his instinct, and took hasty flight towards the exit, leaving his sword, the goblet, and his reservoir of Elven blood to lie on the tunnel’s floor. _I cannot fight them now. Immortality will not save me from death if I cannot even fend them._

Each of his footfalls sounded deafening to his ears; he closed his eyes, opening them only sporadically, his hands outreached to aid his mostly blind sprint down the passageway. _Not now. Not now. Not now,_ he chanted, sure that his pursuer would find him in his vulnerable and defenseless state, but incapable of distinguishing how far away the Elf or man was from him. Once more, he opened his eyes, and was spellbound by the gleam of the wrought ladder before him, its metal shimmering in the pale moonlight that shone in a single, thin beam from the minute opening in the top of the tree’s natural grotto. He was as overwhelmed by the sight of the beautifully simple object as by his relief at the chance for escape, and so closed his eyes to shut out the image, to retain his resolve.

Frantically, he grasped the rungs only to be immediately drawn into the cool texture of their making, the smooth metal eliciting a sigh of delight from him. So enamored was the mercenary with the ladder that he soon forgot himself again; that is, until an unknown agency compelled him into action. The foreign motivation moored his far-flung thoughts into some semblance of cohesion: while his senses staggered him, the alien impetus righted him. Ament climbed the ladder unthinkingly, lost in the pleasure of his keen acuity.

The arrow broke free from his back; the slender wooden shaft snapping on the wall of the confined space of the ladder’s ascendance, clattering especially noisily to the compacted floor under him: it broke his reverie. Pain branched out from the wound, lancing through the muscles of his back and shoulders in agony so intense that Ament moaned at the exquisite, excruciating sensation, and nearly lost his hold on the ladder’s rungs. It was not until he felt the dry, brittle leaves under his hands that the mercenary opened his eyes to find he was out of the accursed tunnel, kneeling on all fours in the cavity within the trees.

He observed himself shut the stone door to the passageway brusquely: a slab once too heavy for him to lift, he now closed without grievance. The leader smiled, satisfied at his forethought and strength; however, when he reached behind him, wrenching the remainder of the broken arrow from his back without regard, Ament came to a shocking revelation, screaming in pain all the while. While it was his hand that pulled the arrowhead free from his flesh to toss it across the cavern, it was not his will that controlled it. _What sorcery is this?_

The piercing agony did not stop Ament from crawling through the aperture Doran had hacked through the trees only earlier that day. _The goblet,_ he remembered all of a sudden. _Egad, I have left in the tunnel._ His senses were lessened by his fear and his having become somewhat accustomed to its overpowering influence, and thus the mercenary sat back on his feet to ruminate as to how to reclaim the goblet with the Elves still within the passageway. Breathless and mystified, he rose, walking away from the trees involuntarily. _Nay, the goblet. I will not leave without it,_ he argued uselessly, his mind recoiling in revulsion as a baneful, discordant presence welled higher within him. Despite his efforts, the leader could not control his unruly limbs.

Ament fell purposely to the ground to stop his progress, laying himself on his side and clutching his legs to his chest as though to prevent forcibly their disobedience. Rallying his awareness on this vile essence, he questioned, _What blight is this?_ Flashbacks came to him of events through which he had never lived, people he had never met, and vile deeds he had never committed; the unfamiliar memories rambled on, bringing with them emotions of hatred, lust, and power the likes of which not even he was capable. Scenes of horrific torture turned his stomach, knowledge of spells, herbs, and poisons arose in his mind, pushing against the mercenary’s essence, forcing from him his own memories. Although Ament had no knowledge of the goblet’s imprecation, he knew then that something truly ill had befallen him. _This is no boon; it is a curse._

The mercenary lay under the full moon, his spirit waning as Melfren’s waxed.

  
  


 


	24. Chapter 24

He could not muster any energy to force his wrecked body into running faster. Already the tunnel gyrated riotously in the faint light from up ahead, the orange hued ambience adding to Legolas’ dizziness. In the wake of the collapse, this part of the passageway was spared the same devastation as the rest of the tunnel, and for this the Prince was thankful, as there was little to impede him from running headlong across the loose soil to find Ament and Tirn. After the violence he had endured, the suffering his captors had forced upon him, and the prolonged torment of being bound or caged, the Prince’s forethought was greatly diminished, as was his warrior’s intuition, both of which advised him stealth was more important than speed.

He slowed, however, as he approached what he vaguely remembered to be near the end of the tunnel, the section in which led to the room of his imprisonment. A foreboding crept up his spine as dark and lingering as the foul water in the Enchanted River. He crawled along the ground on his hands and knees, making sure to hide in the shadow of the curve in the wall so not to be seen. Legolas listened: the echo of quick footsteps met his ears. _Ament is escaping._

Oblivious to all but this worry, the Elda forsook secrecy to sprint around the corner with his sword at ready, though the sight there precipitated his shambling step into stopping. The dim light of a torch cast no shadow on the Elf that lay right next to it, exposing in full the horrid state of his sentry. The woodland Prince staggered to Tirn’s unmoving form. _Let it not be,_ Legolas pled, dropping to his knees beside the sentinel. He immediately noticed the worst of the sentry’s injuries, and so grabbed for Tirn’s throat, wrapping his long fingers tightly about the Elf’s dripping hide to press the skin tenaciously, eager to aid the valiant warrior’s body in stopping the flow of blood but not yet able to ascertain exactly from where it had come. To his surprise, a strip of cloth was wound about Tirn’s neck. Under the cloth, in frail and uneven patters, the flesh barely moved with the weak effort of the sentry’s heart. The closed, sunken eyes flickered but did not open. _Thank Valar. He is not yet gone._

His free hand flitted over the sentry in uncertainty. _Let him not die._ Across the fallen Elf’s legs lay a large stone slab that covered the sentry’s lower limbs from mid-thigh downwards, encasing the remainder of the sentinel’s body under its weight. Pooled blood darkened the dirt; in the burgundy mud, in the very center of the irregular, elliptical puddle of muck, laid the blond head of his sentry. A forgotten sword, half buried under the soil, lay nearby. The goblet sat ostentatiously in the dirt far above Tirn’s head, the silvery blood that the Prince knew to be his sentinel’s rolled in fat droplets down its brim, painting the golden artifact with the evidence that Legolas had feared to find. _It is too late. It is too late for us all._ Immediate hopelessness took hold of him. _Ament has procured his immortality. Did my arrow do Ament no damage at all?_

From the end of the tunnel where he had only just fled came a muted thump. _The trapdoor._ Reflexively holding himself over his fallen friend, Legolas hovered in trepidation that whatever means Strider and the Noldor had taken to prevent another collapse would fail. But nothing crashed down upon him save for a slight shower of soil, and after a few more fretful moments, he sat back on his feet in relief; that is, until an additional thump echoed from the end of the tunnel in which he sat. Unaware of the construction of the lair’s entrance, as he was unconscious upon entering it, the Wood-Elf could only speculate as to what barricade they would now face in leaving: he paid the noise no mind, sure that Ament was not approaching but running from him. An anguished scream ensued shortly after, muffled but identifiable as Ament’s, and the archer smiled faintly at the sound. _Or perhaps he is hurt, after all._

Seeing to his sentry again, Legolas felt the faltering pulse under his fingertips and was provoked into action: he left the strip of cloth as it was, and instead removed the shirt he wore, Tirn’s shirt, to tear it into several narrow pieces. Though he did not know much of healing, he had treated and been treated many times before, and knew that the hidden gouge on his sentry’s neck had already begun to form a fragile new layer of skin. This scab had likely adhered to the cloth strip. It was the only thing keeping the already ashen Elf from complete exsanguination; to remove it would only restart Tirn’s bleeding, and so he left it be, despite his desire to see the extent of the damage done. Winding the newly torn cloth around the sentinel’s throat, Legolas tied firmly each piece with care, afraid to strangle the Wood-Elf should he bind the strip too forcefully. When done, he picked the sentry’s head gently from the mud and slid the remainder of his shirt under it before replacing Tirn’s head on the ground. The stone he could not move on his own, not even were he healthy, and so he reluctantly left it as it was.

Legolas knew he should follow Ament. The sentry’s sacrifice would be for nothing if the mercenary was not stopped, and for this knowledge, the Wood-Elf’s conscience was torn. He did not want to leave Tirn until the twins arrived to aid him; he did not want to allow the sentry to die, no matter the consequences. In a guilt-ridden but selfish fit, Prince Legolas wanted to lie next to his sentry, to end the watch over the dying Tirn by his own demise. _He looks much as I did, as I would have, if I had not let him talk me into switching places._ The pains the twins had taken to dirty and muss the flaxen locks of his sentinel, the trading of Tirn’s relatively clean clothes for Legolas’ blood-soaked breeches, and the bruises and marks they had painted on the sentry with mud made Tirn look all the more like the Prince, now that the sentry had his own bruises and dirtied hair, and even their sallow, bloodless complexions matched. _I should not have let him do this. I will die but he may have lived._

Tirn’s eyelids fluttered again, his brow knitting briefly into a frown before giving way to the calm of his deathlike state when the Prince murmured a soothing lie in their native tongue, “Rest, Tirn. All will be well.”

Settling his back against the intact wall behind him, the archer railed at himself for his despair that Tirn had no prospect, no odds of living. _He is not yet dead, nor are you, Legolas._ He looked towards the passageway’s end, debating whether to give chase to Ament or wait for the others. He checked on the sentry, feeling for the faint pulse with his trembling fingers. Finding Tirn’s heart to beat still, Legolas laid his weary head back against the wall and closed his eyes. _I will wait for Strider and the Noldor. Then Ament will die._ He swallowed thickly, fighting the overpowering urge to cough.

His exhaustion ceded to anger at himself for allowing this predicament to continue for so long, for allowing Tirn to take his place, and at his inability to keep his father and Mirkwood from the fugitive Ament’s plans. Most of all, his ire grew for the mercenary. _I will see him dead, felled by my hand,_ he promised himself before speaking aloud, making a plea to the fallen sentinel, “Do not die, Tirn. Do not leave me behind.” The Prince did not know the sentry well; decorum and a substantial difference in age prevented their friendship, but he smiled in remembrance of an Elfling gone astray in the forest, found by his sentry. “You cannot keep your promise if you are not here. Who will find me when I am lost?” As the anger and hate grew within him, overcoming his despair and melancholy, he welcomed the strength it brought, knowing he would need it. _It should have been me._

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They followed the Prince’s path through the collapsed tunnel easily, even without torchlight. It was the only way through the rubble and mounds of dirt. _Wood-Elf or not, Legolas digs like a Dwarf,_ Elrohir mused, admiring the persistence with which the Silvan had managed to break through every earthen obstacle they came across. _He’s likely already dug himself out of the tunnel._

“Eh, careful mate, you’re not so steady on your feet, now,” he heard Jalian reprimand kindly. Elrohir looked back to his human brother, who was doubled over with an arm clutching his middle, and his other arm in the grasp of the disfigured mercenary. “Got to be more mindful of how you move, Strider. No need in tearing them wounds open.”

The Noldo watched Jalian’s mothering attentions, amused when Aragorn glared at the mercenary, a look Elrohir had been the recipient of many times in the past. _He never was a cheerful patient. Not that he should be with those burns,_ he thought, scrutinizing his young human brother vigilantly to be sure that the Ranger was well enough to continue.

Elladan, who was trailing the two humans and his twin’s progression through the tunnel, and who had only just crawled through another of Legolas’ excavations, stood, brushing the soil from him as he advised Estel solemnly, “Listen to him, brother. He is experienced in these matters. Move cautiously.” If Jalian was offended at Elladan’s reference to his disfigurement, he did not show it, but aided the annoyed Ranger as they continued down a relatively unscathed portion of the tunnel.

“We’ve no time for caution,” the Ranger hissed through teeth clenched in pain. Estel’s urgency galvanized Elrohir’s own desire for haste, and he again took the lead, increasing their pace. While most of their journey through the tunnel was over or around seemingly harmless piles of dirt and stone, several times they were forced into crawling through holes made through the debris that appeared as though they would fall at the slightest provocation. The short, smooth ceiling of before was now cavernous and jagged since the stones had fallen and the ground above them had crumpled into heaps of pebbles and dirt to bar their way. Had not Legolas already traversed the tunnel, the journey would have been much slower.

Elrohir tested the next pathway, little more than a narrow cavity in an otherwise impenetrable wall of soil, stone, timbers, and roots, while hoping that his brothers would not need to dig him out should the precarious passage fall. _We’ve not time for such a hindrance. We need to be careful,_ he thought, _but Estel is right, we’ve no time for caution either._ Again the Noldo’s thoughts turned to the Prince and Tirn, both of whom he feared for greatly. The Prince had obviously found passage via this opening, for there was no other way around it. Charily, he crawled through the hole, poking his head through to the other side of the peculiar hollow to find that past the crude opening the walls were mostly intact. Elrohir was alarmed at the faint illumination of torchlight. Quickly, he retreated, pulling back to confer with his brothers.

“Someone is ahead,” he whispered, telling them all he knew, as scant as that information was. “I cannot determine who it is due to the curve in the wall, but the tunnel is mostly undamaged, and whoever it is, they’ve a torch.” Elrohir exchanged a tacit accord with his twin, the mutual understanding not requiring words or eye contact as it passed between them. They would go together to see who was ahead, leaving Estel and Jalian behind.

Unexpectedly, the mercenary, unaware of the Elves' plans, offered, “Let me go, in case it is Ament. He expects me to have followed him.” Jalian loosed his hold of the Ranger and stepped forward, but Elladan shook his head in negation, an act not able to be seen by the two humans but caught by Elrohir.

Elladan’s clipped tone managed to stop the mercenary. “No. Elrohir and I can steal upon him without being detected. We will go. Stay with Estel.”

It was clear to all that Elladan did not entirely trust the mercenary-turned-supporter not to defect to Ament’s side if given the opportunity. Without waiting for anyone’s consent, Elladan pushed past his twin to crawl through the opening, leaving Elrohir to follow. Before making his own way into the tunnel beyond, the Noldo turned to Estel, pointedly telling the oftentimes-rash Ranger, “Wait for us here. We will come back for you when it is safe. Understood?” Still clutching his injured stomach and chest with one arm, Aragorn nodded his agreement, albeit with a defiant stare, and the pacified Elrohir dropped to the ground to trail after his twin.

Elladan loitered impatiently on the other side of the aperture; as soon as he saw Elrohir clear the hole without problems, he took off at a slow run down the long hallway, holding to the shadows along the inside of the wall that eventually curved into itself. He waited for Elrohir to catch up before they took off again, this time at a slower speed. To a human their footfalls would have been undetectable, and on this they relied as they crept round the curvature, pressed together, their hands on the hilts of the swords belted at their waists. They peered down the lit tunnel, not seeing the two Wood-Elves until they were nearly upon them, as they were sidling along the convex curve of the same wall against which the Prince and sentry were positioned.

The sight of Tirn lying under a stone slab and Legolas sitting motionless with his eyes tightly closed caused Elrohir to pause in his step, his chest contracting at the macabre image before him. Not daring to breathe, the Noldo drew the impulsive, horrifying conclusion, _They are dead._ The woodland creatures were almost indistinguishable, for each was bruised, bloody, and shirtless, and only the clean breeches that Legolas wore indicated that it was the sentry who lay on his stomach, lifeless and deathly still under the stone slab, and not the Prince.

Elladan hesitated beside Elrohir, looking to his dismayed twin with a similar visage of consternation ere creeping to the Prince to whisper, “Legolas?”

With some difficulty did Legolas open his eyes, his hand flying to the short blade on the ground beside him; the Noldo breathed in relief to see the Prince alive. The Wood-Elf’s eyes focused on Elladan weakly and his head lolled slackly, as if Legolas could not awaken from a drunken stupor: except the Silvan was not drunk, but slowly surrendering to Elven grief and the trauma of his captivity. Legolas abandoned his weapon when he recognized who stood in front of him. Elrohir watched the trodden Wood-Elf strive to speak, the words only slightly louder than his labored breathing, “It should have been me.” His own voice aroused Legolas from the inertness plaguing him; the Prince suddenly sat upright, his voice lucid this time and his vision clear as he demanded, scrambling towards Tirn, “Help him. I cannot move the stone alone.”

It was obvious of whom the archer spoke, and Elrohir glanced to the sentry, noting for the first time the crimson stain that seeped through the tunic on which Tirn’s head lay. _Is he even alive?_

Moving with his brother to the sentry’s prone form, Elrohir inquired, “Where is Ament?”

Legolas stumbled to his feet, grabbing the edge of the stone slab while the twins did the same. “My arrow struck true, but he has escaped,” the Silvan began to explain before the effort of raising the block silenced him. Together they lifted the enormous tablet, though Elladan and Elrohir bore much of its weight, and heaved it across the narrow passageway where it landed with the thunderous, clamorous complaint of the supporting timbers it shattered.

Tirn’s femur stuck out from the cloth of his borrowed leggings. Its end twisted to the side and protruded far more than a simple break would have in striking evidence that the sentry had struggled to remove himself from underneath his rock captor. Forthwith, the twins began the art they learned from their father, the skill of healing. While Elladan saw to Tirn’s legs, sweeping his hands over them for other breaks or injury, Elrohir sat next to the torch implanted in the soil beside the sentry’s head. _Where has all this blood come from?_

“What has happened?”

Aragorn’s voice startled the Noldo. He looked up to see Aragorn walking to them. _Estel never could follow an order. We should never have taught him to walk so quietly._

Jalian ran forward from behind the Ranger, shrugging his shoulders in apology. “I tried to make him stay, I did.”

Amidst violent coughs, the Prince endeavored to continue speaking, only to be hushed by Elladan. “Sit, Legolas. We will see to Tirn.” The Wood-Elf did not bother to heed the advice.

_He needs water._ Elrohir seized his flask from his hip only to remember it was empty. Legolas bent over, grabbing his knees as he fought to breathe and remain standing. The Ranger hobbled to him, holding the archer upright, which earned him a grateful nod from the Prince.

Elrohir gently slid the flaxen hair from the sentry’s face. He gasped loudly at the sight of the blood-soaked cloths wrapped around Tirn’s throat. The skin under Elrohir’s fingers was clammy, and the pulse of the Wood-Elf’s heart was feeble. “His throat is slit,” the Silvan managed, wiping blood from his mouth onto his bare arm. “I do not know how badly.”

“You did not see it?” Elrohir, like Legolas, loathed removing the wrappings.

“It was bandaged when I came across him,” the Prince supplied, clasping Estel’s arm as another fit of coughing took hold of him.

_He has lost too much blood,_ Elrohir despaired, looking to his brother to find the same conclusion manifest on his twin’s face. Regardless, Elrohir pulled his satchel to him to find the items required to tend the rest of the Wood-Elf’s wounds. First wiping clean the blood from the sentry’s skin, the Noldo applied a paste to the lacerations and bruises on Tirn’s face and shoulders. The sentry’s hand was pierced, the palm opened in a gash filled with dirt and blood. _I cannot clean this properly._ _We need water,_ Elrohir thought again, but derided himself, _I suppose this is the least of Tirn’s worries._

Having set the sentry’s broken bone as well as he could with cloth and pieces of broken timber, Elladan demanded, “Jalian, help us turn him over.” The mercenary rushed to aid Elladan flip Tirn gradually while Elrohir held the sentry’s head, turning it smoothly in time with his body in hopes of not aggravating Tirn’s neck wound. Laid upon his back out of the muck, the Wood-Elf appeared even paler. The dirt and bruises on his chest contrasted with Tirn’s pale skin drastically.

“Sit Legolas, please,” Elrohir heard Aragorn implore the Prince, who had ceased coughing.

Once more Legolas ignored the advice. The archer walked from the Ranger to pick up a golden object from the dirt. He held it out; the gory goblet dripped blood, and it was then that the nagging suspicion in Elrohir’s mind, in everyone’s mind, was brought to the forefront and confirmed.

Tossing the artifact to the ground next to Aragorn and Elladan, Legolas declared, his cobalt eyes lit with burning, bitter fury, “Ament has used the goblet. He has his immortality though he will not have it long. I will find him, and I will kill him.”

  
  



	25. Chapter 25

Silence followed the Prince’s proclamation. Legolas shuffled to where a sword lay in the dirt, favoring one leg as he walked in a noticeable limp. _At least his thigh wound no longer bleeds,_ the Ranger noticed of the relatively clean section of trousers over the Silvan’s upper leg. He observed blankly as the Prince seized the blade from the ground, swaying precariously as he righted himself. _It is a wonder he can stand at all._ Legolas shoved the blade carelessly into the waist of his breeches to pull his long, flaxen, but blood-matted hair into a tail at the nape of his neck, tying it into a tight knot. The Prince’s oath left no doubt that he spoke truly and none doubted he would find Ament and kill him; it was his failing body that defied the Wood-Elf’s pledge, for even as he prepared himself for the battle at hand, the archer wobbled, obviously injured beyond their allowing his participation. _Not that I am better off than he is,_ the Ranger scoffed, realizing that his involvement would also be contested by his twin brothers.

“Legolas,” Elrohir began, holding Tirn’s head gently from the ground in his hands to place his emptied satchel under it, “you are in no condition to – ”

In the orange light of the torch, the fair, bare-chested Elf shone as a golden, heathen savage as he roared, “He is escaped, Elrohir. I will not sit idly by waiting for death while he obtains his revenge or endangers Eryn Galen.” Taking the sword in hand again, the Wood-Elf pointed its blade towards Elrohir, his azure eyes darkened with the full measure of his wrath. “I will not quarrel with you. I am going.”

Unaware yet of the full implications of Ament’s immortality, the Ranger shuffled forwards, kicking up clouds of soil with his plodding step to plead with the Prince. He argued, “Ament can wait, Legolas. He can do no harm if you are with us. We are free to warn Eryn Galen and your father. Besides, Ament can be stopped, even immortals can die.”

Immediately, the Ranger felt the fool and bit his tongue too late to stop his thoughtless statement, for before him laid the proof of this in Tirn’s sallow body, and in front of him stood more evidence of the susceptibility of immortality to surrender to death, as the Prince faded from grief. Strider warned himself, _Watch your words, idiot._

“Nay, Estel.” Elladan moved from his spot beside Tirn: he ambled past Aragorn to place himself inconspicuously between the exit and the Prince, picking up the goblet from the soil where Legolas had tossed it. “You do not remember the whole of the legend. Ament will become Melfren.” Rotating the seemingly innocent object in his hands, Elladan frowned as he smeared Tirn’s blood on his hands unwittingly and threw the cursed artifact back to the ground where it rolled, stopping only when it hit the stone slab that once lay over the sentry. He wiped clean his hands on a nearby timber.

“Melfren is a witch, brother. He will not yield easily to death,” Elrohir added, shifting to pack his belongings into his twin’s bag. The bad news did not end there: “Legolas is right, we cannot let Ament… I mean Melfren –” the Noldo cursed under his breath in exasperation, “Whoever it is, we cannot let him escape. He is aligned with Mordor. I do not know how long the transformation will take, but we have lost time already.”

In concurrent conclusion, Elladan piped in, “It is likely it will take some time before the witch’s powers return to him, but I am not sure. We must locate him before he becomes Melfren entirely. He will flee to avoid our finding him.” Aragorn saw the twins swap a brief glance and knew what Elladan would say next. “Elrohir and I will find him,” the Noldo declared, turning to his human brother and the Prince. “You will both keep watch over Tirn. Jalian will stay, also, and if we do not return, the three of you will seek the Mirkwood border guards to inform them of what is happening.”

_There is no chance Legolas will agree to this._

The agitated Wood-Elf stepped towards the exit; Elladan barred his way, grabbing the Prince’s arm firmly. “No, Legolas. You are too injured to do this. Stay with Tirn and Estel.”

But the indomitable Wood-Elf would not be swayed. He jerked his arm free from Elladan’s hold and did not bother to challenge the Noldo’s commands; Legolas hefted his sword and began a rickety sprint away from them, to the exit. _Sweet Eru._ Forthwith the Ranger followed the Prince, his chest and belly emitting lacerating pangs of agony as he trotted after his friend.

“Estel!” Pausing, he looked to Elrohir, who was prepared to bolt after them. “Stay here,” his brother demanded.

Aragorn peered into the dark confines of the tunnel ahead where the Wood-Elf could be seen rounding the corner to the exit. He looked back to the others, seeing Jalian’s confused, scarred face and two identically terrified Noldo. _I promised Legolas. I will not let him die. We will fight together. I will not leave him._

“We go together or not at all,” the Ranger explained mystifyingly to his bewildered and worried audience, ere he took off in a frantic run to catch the Wood-Elf.

As he sprinted down the tunnel, he heard Elladan order tersely of Elrohir, “Give me your sword, muindor. You and Jalian tend to Tirn,” before the twin caught easily up to him, surpassing his hobbled gait just as they came to the door.

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The throbbing from his wounds had ceased to the point where Ament was not sure he felt at all. What was once hellish, searing pain was now not even a dull ache. Trying to open his eyes, he was not surprised to find that they did not obey him; the foreign essence within him had taken hold, and he found his world growing ever darker, though it was not from his lack of vision that he felt it to be so. _I wish that Doran would come,_ he thought, his hope that the blond mercenary might still be alive, and willing to help him, faltered but did not expire. To have ensured the Prince’s demise, to have experienced the delicate senses of Elven kind, and to have gained his immortality made this new, inexplicable loss that much more acute. Had he the ability to control such a thing, Ament would have wept.

Unable to stop the interloper’s will, the mercenary stood, taking flight and stumbling across the clearing to where the horses were tethered, but they bucked away from him, their shrill whinnies and stamping feet breaking the silence of the moonlit forest as they tried to avoid his touch. Not even his own horse would allow the mercenary near but kicked out at him, screeching in fright. The mercenary roved the glade, bumbling about the discarded possessions of men who would never return to collect them, to finally trip over several satchels. His volition not his own, Ament listened helplessly as the aphotic impetus grumbled dark words in frustration. Hearing his voice uttering words not of his choosing broke the mercenary, and he screamed in silent horror.

The mercenary still perceived the vitality that the goblet had bequeathed him running through his body, its vigor and potency no longer gifts, but an imprecation from a source unfamiliar. Without the distraction of the deluge of information his senses had brought him in the tunnel, Ament found his mind in working order: for whom it worked he could not discern. When his body moved, rising unsteadily to its feet again, Ament knew – the evil welling inside him was no longer the alien entity; it was he who did not belong.

Ament endeavored to remain by holding onto that which had kept him alive through his many years of scheming and pilfering, through his sorrow and hopelessness. The mercenary retained his hatred. _Remember._ He tried to recall the anguish of watching his father die, of burying his mother shortly after. Tenaciously, he held to his mordant desire to witness Thranduil suffer, not just to know the King would grieve for the loss of his son, but to _see_ it.

_Remember, Ament. Remember Ramlin. Do not forget your hatred for Strider and what may yet be accomplished. Do not die without seeing him dead. Do not let this happen without knowing Thranduil’s brat has passed._ The pointlessness of his hate did not occur to him, not even during his dying moments, his nullification. He would not relinquish his reason for living, not even in his death.

The haunted mercenary began to pick his way through the dense foliage surrounding the clearing, pushing his way past brambles and underbrush as he fled.

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He leapt onto the ladder, grasping the top rung to pull himself up, only to find that his arms would not support him. With a thud, the Wood-Elf fell back to the ground: his feet had barely touched the soil when he was grabbed from behind by his shoulders and whirled about to face a furious Noldo Lord. Although his body had ceased turning, his vision still spun, and the tunnel pitched underneath him alarmingly.

“Damn it, Legolas. Will you not listen to reason?” the elder twin hissed. Strider huffed beside his irate brother, leaning against the wall of the passageway, as he was unable to catch his breath without stretching his already overtaxed torso.

_He should have stayed behind,_ the Prince worried, noticing the human suffer.

“Do you wish to die? Tirn has sacrificed his life for you, and you would throw it away wantonly.” The Prince winced, though not from Elladan’s inveighing of his desire to live, but for the Noldo’s unwitting admission that the twin healers held no hope for his sentry’s survival. Elladan must have realized this, for he replaced his hand on the Wood-Elf’s shoulder and tried to apologize.

Legolas cut him off, shaking the Noldo’s hand free to ask, “He will die?”

“He has lost a great deal of blood, my friend,” the Ranger replied softly, still trying to regain his breath. “Even should his body survive, he may not be the same.”

Trying to reassure the Prince, Elladan proffered, “Tirn is strong. He will fight. He is not lost to us yet.”

The Noldo’s choice of words was fitting, and the downtrodden Wood-Elf listened to the growing, oddly euphonic melody of wrath building within him. _I am no longer the one who is lost._

The twin’s information only confirmed what Legolas already knew to be true. “I do not welcome death, no more than I welcomed my captivity and torture at the mercy of these vile humans, but I will not let these trespasses go unpunished, nor allow such evil to exist.” The Prince pulled himself back onto the ladder and peered up to see the newest obstacle that barred his path from felling the ruthless mercenary he sought: a large stone door with no handle, and no indication that it would be easily lifted. “You will not stop me, Elladan Elrondion. Do not try,” he warned without looking at the Noldo; he was sure he would fall if he looked down as he climbed towards the exit, for his vertigo increased at the abrupt motion and his muscles were weak.

“I come not to stop you, Legolas. While I would certainly prefer you to remain in safety, I cannot order you to do so, nor would I, except that I worry that you have suffered enough already. Besides, it seems I cannot even keep my own kin from fighting,” Elladan rumbled, and at this, the archer dared to look down to see a blurry Noldo glaring at his young human brother, who smiled wanly in return. “I will help you.”

“Your brother is as obstinate as a mule,” Legolas muttered, testing the weight of the slab of stone above him to find that it was nearly as heavy as that which had laid over Tirn. “And if you truly wish to assist me, help me lift this infernal door.” Elladan climbed the narrow ladder, standing a rung below Legolas so that they were the same height. The Noldo was stouter and taller than the lithe, shorter Wood-Elf, but the two Elves were still uncomfortably wedged together in the small space. The Noldo stood behind him on the ladder, pressing unintentionally against the Prince.

_It is only Elladan,_ Legolas reproved his tremulous body, trying to cease the shudders of disgust and dread at having another so near.

“Push, Legolas.” Obediently, the younger Elda pushed upwards with all his might, eager to be free of his position, only to find himself indebted to the Noldo’s nearness, for his legs buckled under him, and the Prince would have fallen had not Elladan been behind him.

_I cannot hold this much longer._ The slab door had risen, but the length of their arms prevented them from gaining the force to push the stone open entirely; the tiny gap between the stone and the floor of the grotto above their heads allowed a draught of fresh air into the stale, dusty tunnel. Legolas closed his eyes at the scent, his alacrity resuscitated by the reminder of life in contrast to the tomb-like lair.

“Do not let go,” he advised. _If you do not do this, Legolas, you will never get out._ Using the enclosure and the tightness of the Noldo’s body to counterbalance his movement, the archer twisted upwards, sliding against Elladan as he tried to place his feet on the rung higher. Bending his knees to ascend, the Prince was shoved further into the Noldo: nausea swelled within him at the feeling but he continued until both his feet were firmly planted one rung higher, his elbows bent to keep the slab up without raising it any higher. “Move up.”

Elladan complied, moving to step up, careful to avoid touching Legolas unless possible. Of course, such a feat was unfeasible, and the Wood-Elf leant as far forward into the ladder as he could, until the rungs dug into his abused chest, forcing the air from his lungs and the sword at his waist to chafe his skin. Being nude in front of Elrohir and Tirn when he and his sentry had switched clothing had not been as difficult to endure as this, for then he was only exposed, now he was touched, and his weary mind could not discern the difference between the neutral friction of Elladan’s body and the recent memory of Ramlin’s abhorrent desires.

_Only a little more._ When the Noldo was as tall as Legolas once more, they straightened their bent arms, lifting the door until it was half way open: it was not enough.

“Can you climb still, Legolas?” The Wood-Elf clambered higher, the fresh air spurring him onward, though his arms began to shake at the effort of keeping the door ajar. To let it fall shut would be to let it fall on his head. Behind him, Elladan repeated his own efforts, and together they heaved the stone slab upwards in a burst of effort. For a brief moment, it appeared that the slab would fall back on them, but it teetered, momentum finally causing it to plummet to the ground above, open and no longer a hindrance to their progress.

_Thank the Valar,_ the Prince thought, scrambling up the last rungs in his haste to be liberated of the sepulchral passageway. He crawled into the tapered, distorted cavern, moving quickly to the side to allow Elladan to pass through the exit. _We are under the trees,_ Legolas reminded himself, surveying the odd spectacle of entwined trunks around him.

“Estel, can you make it?” the elder twin asked.

The Ranger’s head materialized from the opening and Elladan immediately aided his sibling into the grotto. Crouching, the trio looked to each other, unsure of how to proceed. Strider voiced the others’ concerns, “What if he is out there? We can hardly take him by surprise crawling one by one out of here.”

“I do not know, muindor. Let us hope he is disabled by the transformation,” the twin replied, standing stooped over to cross the small room to the hacked opening to the forest. “Do not come out unless I tell you to do so, understood?” Elladan glared meaningfully at Strider before turning his glower to the Prince, both of whom nodded in fraudulent obedience. “I mean this.”

The Ranger grumbled in discontent, “Go already, brother. We will wait.” With a final warning frown, the twin slid quietly through the aperture, leaving Strider and Legolas entirely alone. “I am sorry, my friend, for Tirn, for what happened to him, and to you.” Strider held his tortured stomach as though it might take flight, his kind face burned with exertion and shame.

“Do not worry, Strider. Tirn will heal.” Absently, the Silvan rubbed his hands together to return the feeling to them, to ameliorate the bitter cold that seeped through his body. Perpetual waves of grief assailed him, dragging him under into the gray void, and he fought them, if only to see his oath through, to see Ament dead.

“And what of you, Legolas? Will you heal?” Clutching his chest as a spasm of pain wracked him, the Ranger wheezed, doubling over as he toiled to breathe without more agony.

“You should have stayed with Elrohir, Strider. It is not too late,” the Prince eluded, unwilling to admit to his human companion that he expected he would not live through whatever occurred next. _However, it is too late for me._

“Legolas –”

Elladan’s call interrupted their short conversation. “Ament is not here. It is safe to come out.”

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_It has been a long wait._ Forcing his inimical, stolen body into working proved to be a harder task than the burgeoning witch had anticipated. He worked as an unpracticed puppeteer; in the many years with nothing but immeasurable time and meaningless continuation, Melfren had not had the body with which to move, if action had been at all possible in the endless shadows of nonexistence. _But the wait is over. This fool has relieved me of nothingness only to find it himself._ Images flashed before his mind’s eye, scenes of thievery, small moments of camaraderie towards a burly man who he discerned to be his victim’s brother, and other trivia that Melfren did not care to retain.

He knew what awaited the human upon his removal. The spirit would be disembodied, freed of its earthly shackles only to be swept into an eternal void, a timeless, senseless oblivion. Melfren did not wish to return to this void. After seemingly an eternity of waiting for his cursed goblet to bring him back, the witch wanted nothing more than to lay claim to this new flesh, to become again. _Die. Leave._ But something kept the witch from complete control over his new body: the memories the other had he could extirpate, plucking them easily from his new mind as weeds from the ground. Yet two memories resurfaced repeatedly, one of a man being torn by a pack of Wargs, the other of the brawny brother lying dead in the forest. Despite his efforts, he could not root out these memories, nor the intense hatred associated with them. _I will not cow to your insignificant yearning for retaliation,_ the witch avowed.

He knew he was being followed, information obtained from the fear he felt from his new body, fear he had felt from his fledgling inception back into existence, warned him of this. The witch had recognized the tunnel to be his home, a place where he once conducted experiments for the Dark Lord and for his own pleasure, the place where he died. A root caught his boot, tripping him. Yellow eyes tracked him, their interest both an affinity for the Darkness they acknowledged and hunger for the blood from the wound on his back.

Moreover, he knew that the vivid hatred that preoccupied him, overwhelming his fragile hold on the body he inhabited, would only be quashed by its removal. Melfren regained his feet, looking back from where he had run. The clearing was long beyond his sight but he did not need vision to know what lay there. _Legolas. Strider._ When there was nothing left of his victim, naught but these two names, two memories, and odium so robust the witch could only accept it or be conquered by it, he gave in to its soothing familiarity. Though the hatred was not his, the emotion was familiar, and so he allowed it to take him, keeping it as his own, if only to eradicate it.

Melfren did not have the strength to fight the hatred, for the hatred was what barred him from accumulating his forgotten strength; however, he had the means to eliminate this hatred. _He will be gone after this. It is just as well,_ the witch conceded, walking back towards the clearing.

  
  


 


	26. Chapter 26

He searched his new body as he walked, looking for a weapon. Even the most recent of the mercenary’s memories were now lost, and Melfren did not know where he might find a sword or bow, or even whether the two beings he was determined to destroy would be worth the effort of finding them. Finally, his fingers lit upon a dagger tied to his person. _It is not much but it will be enough. I will make it enough._ Muttering Dark words under his breath, the witch was pleased to note the way the dawning morning seemed to recede as he spoke, the tainted trees drawing tighter overhead to block out the light and sky. _Perhaps I will not need weapons,_ Melfren thought, smiling wickedly in satisfaction. _There is already some strength within me._

Speaking no more lest he exhaust whatever potency he held, the witch trudged through the thicket, trying to recall from which way he had come. A nagging suspicion festered in the back of his mind – a reminder that he could not understand but could not forget. _Legolas and Strider._ It did not occur to him that his abilities may have stagnated, that the power he had in his past body may not be as it had been before.

His death had been accidental, not due to battle or murder. It was the very type of death he had wished to avoid, the mortality he despised the most – he had not been able to avoid the fever that had raged through his body, killing him. Even with his magic, his spells, his herbs, and his will to live, nothing could prevent the sickness that stole his breath slowly, until it eventually stole his life. His weakness had become an opportunity to the Orcs and loathsome beasts he had once ruled through terror. They had fouled up his agenda to be brought an Elf by bringing him humans instead, and at his weakest, his orders were not menacing enough to force them to try again. When he could no longer control them, when his threats failed to hold them in awe, the Orcs under his command took flight, and his only chance of surviving fled with them. Melfren had been too weak to find an Elf on his own, to make his enchanted goblet work. Deep within his tunnels he had waited to die, drowning, it seemed, in the sickening fluid of his own fragile mortality. The witch had worked relentlessly, trying diligently to survive. In the end, as all humans must, Melfren had died, alone and raging, but not before he cast one last spell, a curse to any who found his beloved object, his chance at immortality.

Melfren began to walk more quickly. Hatred swamped his consciousness, odium that he could not remember the meaning behind, nor recall the source. _They will pay. They will die. All of them._ Ahead of him, he heard the snicker of horses and conversation.

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Elladan helped Aragorn from the ground outside the trees’ opening, carefully pulling him into standing: Estel immediately bent over, clutching his chest in a vain attempt to keep the skin from moving. _Ada will be most unhappy with this new scar,_ the human thought with bitter amusement, trying his best not to cough. The salve Elrohir had spread over the burns earlier seemed to be wearing off, as was the welcomed numbness it had offered.

“Estel?”

The Ranger straightened, forcing himself to ignore the stretch of his charred skin. They had more important matters to attend to than pain. “It will pass, muindor.” The twin’s skepticism was not lost on the Ranger, but the Noldo nodded wordlessly, handing Aragorn the sword he had borrowed from Elrohir before leaving the Adan standing beside the tree trunks.

The twin wandered around the clearing. _Ament could not have escaped far._

“There are too many tracks, Aragorn, and not enough time between them to tell which are new,” Elladan complained, eyeing the many prints around the campsite.

The Ranger joined his brother in his exploration. Together they searched the site, trying to find some hint as to which way the mercenary had gone. With as much movement as had occurred in the clearing since they had arrived the night before, it was difficult to determine footstep from footstep, much less one path from the next. The only sign of recent activity was a patch of bloodied, trampled grass not far from the opening to the underground grotto. Aragorn knelt beside it, running his fingers along the flattened terrain.

“This blood is newly spilt,” the human muttered under his breath, following the imprints with his gaze to the horses, where they became scattered and unreadable amongst the many others there.

“It may well be Ament.” Elladan knelt beside him. “Legolas’ arrow struck true, though it did not fell him.”

Treading slowly, the human made his way to the mounts, where Legolas was whispering softly in Sindarin. “Something has spooked them.” The Wood-Elf soothed the steeds, patting them affectionately.

Immediately, Aragorn made note that none of the horses were missing. “All the horses are accounted for,” he called to his brother and friend. “Ament is on foot.”

_The better for us that he is._ Aragorn whispered to his own mount, calming the agitated steed while he checked the soft soil around them. Hoof prints littered the area, obscuring any human tracks.

When he rose, he grinned, seeing that tied to his horse were his sword, quiver, and bow. These he quickly unbound, laying Elrohir’s sword aside to strap his own sword around his waist. Regardless of his injuries, the Ranger’s spirit lightened as the broadsword’s scabbard rubbed against his hip. _It is good to be armed again, especially with my own weapon._

He walked around the comforted horses to where the Prince was stroking the mane of Meika’s mare absently. “Take these, Legolas.” Aragorn handed the Silvan his bow and quiver, waiting for the Elf to strap them round his bare chest before he passed the Prince Elrohir’s Elven sword. “It has served my brother well. Let us hope it retains its reputation.” Although he did not say it, Aragorn knew it was also much lighter than the sword the archer carried now, which the Ranger recognized to be Ament’s blade.

_He will need the advantage._ As another spasm of agony erupted from his chest, the human amended, _So will we all._

Legolas swung the long, beautiful sword through the air. “Do you not think it would be more fitting that Ament die upon his own blade?”

He almost laughed, thinking the Prince to be making a dark joke, but seeing the resolve in the Wood-Elf’s bruised face, Estel merely replied, “I would rather he die by a blade of Elven make.” Legolas nodded, contemplating the justice of such symbolism seriously, it seemed to the Ranger.

Elladan joined the two friends, scanning the trees behind the horses. “As long as he is dead, I have no preference.”

They searched again, seeing no perceptible tracks on the ground around them that indicated where, after making his way to the horses, Ament had traveled. _Great Valar. We cannot lose him this easily._

“We will get the others, split up, and find him. We can take the horses,” Aragorn suggested. “He will be weakened and –”

“It is too dangerous for us each to go alone, and if we went in pairs we are more likely to miss him. Besides, who would stay with Tirn? I do not trust Jalian.” Elladan rubbed the bridge of his nose in consternation, an action that reminded the Ranger of his adopted father.

_I would that Ada were here now_.

“Legolas, what say you?”

The two brothers looked to the Prince for his input, but the battered Wood-Elf paid them no mind. He was watching the stars as they faded in the sky, their brilliance overwhelmed by the greater luminosity of the climbing sun. Just when Aragorn made to ask the Silvan again what advice he could offer, the Wood-Elf spoke: “There is no need.”

Elladan queried, “No need for what, Legolas?”

“To find Ament. He is no longer. Can you not hear the cursed trees rejoicing Melfren’s return? He is coming this way.” Legolas turned his smiling face upwards once more, watching the stars lovingly as the last of them vanished from view. He grinned at Estel and Elladan, disarming the brothers. “I have seen the stars once more. I am ready.”

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Elrohir looked to the exit, ignoring whatever puerile chatter Jalian was attempting to engage him in, and cursing his brothers to have left him here. He would watch over the sentry with care, doing whatever it would take to keep Tirn amongst them, but Elrohir would rather his human brother have remained in his stead, letting him accompany Elladan. _Estel is in no condition to be fighting_ , he worried. The Prince he would not have tried to persuade to remain, if he had even been given the chance: Legolas would not have yielded, and if any deserved to witness Ament's death, it would be Legolas. _Neither would Estel have yielded. I would have more luck convincing a cave Troll to sunbathe._ Placing two fingers over Tirn’s neck, he felt the skin move with the fitful rhythm of the sentry’s heart. _Do not leave us, Tirn._

“Do you think he’ll pull through, mate?”

The question cut through Elrohir’s musings, and the Noldo rapped his fingers against the hilt of his sword impatiently. “I cannot tell. It depends on many different factors.” Jalian sounded concerned about Tirn’s welfare, but Elrohir was unwilling to afford the mercenary any leniency.

_Elladan did not trust him,_ the healer contemplated, watching the scarred human’s movements closely. While Jalian had kidnapped the Prince, helped to keep him and later Aragorn captive, the mercenary had also aided them more than once, and so the Noldo was undecided. _Aragorn seemed to have some faith in him, though._

They both sat beside Tirn, waiting impatiently for some word or sign from Elladan, Estel, and Legolas. Jalian fidgeted, plucking at the dirt beside his knee. “What do you mean – factors?”

_If he doesn’t stop rambling…_ Elrohir threatened, but didn’t have the heart to finish. Jalian had done little but speak pointlessly since the others left. Pulling in a deep breath, the Elf found more patience by noting the sincere, troubled inquisitiveness of Jalian’s question. _He is just as scared and worried as I am, albeit not for the same reasons, I would wager._

“It depends on where he is cut and how deeply he is cut. Although Elves are quicker to heal than the Edain, such a wound is usually fatal. His death may be slow, or he may recover. I do not know, and only time will tell us.”

Jalian nodded his head, his confusion not relieved in the slightest. “Guess Meika was right all along, he was.” Drawing shallow lines and circles in the soil, the mercenary’s face was filled with a grief that the Elf did not understand.

As much as he did not want to continue the inane conversation, Elrohir asked nonetheless, “Who is Meika?”

“He was a friend of mine. Ramlin killed him, for wanting to help Strider and the Elf.”

Surprised, and momentarily forgetting the peril in which the topics of their conversation were currently mired, an astounded Elrohir asked, “Your friend tried to aid Strider and Legolas?”

Even in the dying light of the nearly spent torch, Elrohir could clearly see the flush that spread from the mercenary’s throat over his face, its absence in the scarred flesh of Jalian’s features giving the human a blotchy appearance. With shame the mercenary spoke, his voice quiet and his face lowered, watching his fingers draw their meaningless patterns in the dirt. “He did. I tried to tell him not to, that Ament would have his head for it. But Ramlin told us what he wanted to do to it, and Meika couldn’t abide by no creature being tortured, especially not by Ramlin. That one took pleasure only in suffering.”

It was painfully evident what ‘it’ the mercenary referred to, and so Elrohir let the man speak, distracted by the insight into the circumstances of the Prince and his brother’s situation, circumstances which he had yet to hear.

“Ament used to say that he’d taught Ramlin all he knew, how to get information from people, how to bully, how to pilfer and connive. He taught him the most important lesson of all, he’d told Meika and me, when he told us about his plan.” The mercenary stole a glance at Elrohir ere he swept the soil flat with the palm of his hand, erasing the myriad patterns violently. “Said morality was naught but what a man decided is moral. Ament told us that how far a man was willing to go to get what he wants was like a line drawn in the sand,” Jalian explained sheepishly, “or something as such. I’m no good at thinking. He just told us he didn’t have no line and that he would do anything to get what he wanted. Said if we were the same, we could be rich men.”

Elrohir was appalled at the logic and would have normally argued, had not his brothers and friend been above them, likely fighting for their lives and the welfare of many others. “All of this for riches?” Despite himself, the Noldo could not help but let his ire and disbelief paint his words. “Are all these lives worth money?”

“That’s what Meika was right about. I would have traded all your lives for coins a week ago,” Jalian snorted, “not like I haven’t done that kind of thing before. I’ve been working in the slave trade most of my life, selling Elves, Dwarves, men and women, children. Meika used to tell me that I was selling what was important to get what weren’t.”

_His friend was a smart man,_ the healer decided. Utterly confused and irate, Elrohir prompted, “But your friend still went along with Ament’s plans, even though he claimed to know better?”

“You’ve obviously never been poor,” the mercenary assumed correctly, sneering scornfully at the Noldo’s fine clothing. “You’ve never wanted for anything, no doubt. Grew up with all that you asked for that money could buy. Fine food and wine, garments – even glory and fame are for the rich like you. Never heard a song praising the poor farmer who works himself to death to feed his kids, or to feed you rich people.” The mercenary was ranting outright, his tirade growing louder as his own anger grew. “Meika was poor, like the rest of us. Ain’t our fault that we were poor, that we weren’t born to some wealthy family to inherit money from or take care of us. Meika just wanted some land and a house. Maybe a wife and kids. But not even these things, what you well-to-do ones take for granted, was enough to convince Meika to let the Elf suffer. He was a good man.”

Elrohir was dumbfounded temporarily. He conceded the veracity of Jalian’s claims about his wealthy lifestyle. It was not that he and his family had never suffered or were spoilt; no, their family had been as filled with strife and uncertainty as any other, but they had never lacked food, or shelter, and lived in finery that would feed entire human villages for the length of their days. He loathed admitting this to the human; he did not wish Jalian to think the differences in how they lived were enough to condone the mercenaries’ actions. _But a man cannot be faulted for wanting such simple pleasures in his life._

Elrohir said what he hoped would purge his kindhearted desire to console the human’s sadness and his less than benevolent need to point out that regardless of the reason why, the mercenaries were still unjustified for kidnapping and torture. “If it is as you say, and your companion tried to save Legolas and Strider, then he acted virtuously, even if no songs are sung for him or none remember his actions.”

Smiling sadly, the mercenary’s vague explanation came full circle, his angry outburst ending softly, “Meika told me that even if we got all the wealth in Middle Earth from Ament’s scheme, he would never be happy because of how we’d got it. Said fairly much what you just said. He was right in it, too: said Ament was wrong, that it wasn’t money, but the line in the sand that’s what’s worth dying for.”

The mercenary began to weep silently, tears trailing down his dirty, splotched face. The clean streaks made by the tears added to Jalian’s already unsightly visage but to Elrohir the man was not a hideous, wicked human any longer, but merely misguided and desperate. _Who knows,_ the Noldo thought, checking Tirn’s pulse yet again and finding it the same, unsteady beat, _if I had lived Jalian's life, I may well have turned out just as he did._

They sat for some moments, neither speaking. Elrohir’s thoughts suddenly returned to his brothers and Legolas, his chest contracting in a dizzying fear. It was not the same awareness he had felt before when he sensed Estel and Legolas’ turmoil, but a deeper, familiar knowing. _Elladan._ A dread so great that he could not breathe engulfed him, crushing him. _What is happening?_ However, he knew what was occurring above him, for the overwhelming fear that emanated from his twin’s consciousness to his own could mean only one thing, _They have found Melfren._

  
  



	27. Chapter 27

_We are not prepared,_ the Noldo complained, scanning the dense woods around them. He could not hear the trees’ exultation for the witch’s homecoming: he had not the passionate connection to the forest with which Legolas was blessed, and so could only listen for Melfren’s footsteps, breathing, or voice... any sign that the Dark witch drew near. _I would that Elrohir were with us,_ the Noldo thought as he concentrated on listening. He had rarely fought without his brother at his side. Elladan sensed his brother’s fear for him, as he knew Elrohir sensed his dread to face the witch.

His twin’s absence only emphasized the lack of confidence he held in the injured Ranger and fading Silvan’s ability to face whatever may come. With a sigh of resignation and a quick prayer to Ilúvatar, the Noldo anxiously turned the pommel of his sword in his palm, its whetted blade creating silvern reflections to dance around the clearing. _I wish they had stayed below._ Elladan spared another quick glance at the Prince and Estel, both of whom stood much as he, at ready with their senses cast outwards and unaware from where the danger may spring forth. Neither Wood-Elf or human was well enough to participate in battle, much less in opposition to odds that were decidedly against them now that Ament was no more and Melfren was approaching. They had no plan and no time to think of one.

The Ranger whispered, “We cannot just stand here, waiting for Melfren to find us.” Aragorn held his own sword in hand, his knuckles and fingers ashen, so tightly were they wrapped around the hilt.

“Why does he return?” Pulling free an arrow from his borrowed quiver, the Prince rubbed the azure vanes at its end thoughtfully, his head cocked to the side as he listened to the trees. Elladan could not discern whether the Wood-Elf was speaking to the forest or to him and Aragorn, but he had not the chance to ask, for across the clearing, directly opposite from where they stood close to the horses, came the obvious rustling of underbrush and the stamping of rapidly approaching feet.

The normally murky woods seemed to draw in on themselves, the boughs of the trees knitting together to block out the light from overhead. The contrast between the light-filled clearing and the murky forest heightened Elladan’s unease; he could not see far into the forest and the trees grew ever tighter, such that even in the empty space overhead, where there was nothing to block the morning sun, the limbs seemed to stretch, to meet and entwine, hindering the light from falling upon them. All was in shadow, and an icy zephyr brought the sound of the witch’s Black speech with it.

The Noldo shivered from far more than the cold. _Melfren is not as weak as we had hoped._

“He casts –” the twin began, intending to warn his brother and friend to be on guard for the witch’s magic, but no sooner had his mouth formed the words than Melfren broke free of the thicket, crashing to his hands and knees at the edge of the glade.

Elladan quickly tried to take advantage of the witch’s fall by rushing forwards, not desiring to give Melfren the chance to speak any further, his sword thrust out and a battle cry upon his lips. Jumping over the dead campfire and several packs, the Noldo’s footsteps were followed closely by Aragorn, his sword drawn, and the bow wielding Legolas. He was close enough to note the gray in the mercenary’s vibrantly red hair when he realized they were not fast enough, and knew his folly when the witch peered up at him, smiling malevolently, unconcernedly. With naught but a flick of Melfren’s wrist, a searing, numbing pain radiated throughout Elladan’s body, his legs gave way beneath him and his arms sagged to his sides. The agony seemed to vibrate his entire body, shaking his flesh and bones until the Noldo was immobilized, his sword falling to the ground from his uncooperative fingers.

Behind him, Elladan could hear the Wood-Elf’s groan, followed by a pained grunt from Estel as they, too, dropped to the grass, their weapons tumbling to the earth beside them, within reach if they had been able to budge. While he could move his head, Elladan could not look away from the witch’s black eyes, the haughty gaze barely hiding Melfren’s mirth as he took his time picking himself from the ground. _It cannot end this way,_ he thought, desperate as he struggled to be free of the invisible shackles holding him motionless and at Melfren’s mercy.

“Legolas,” the witch nodded in mock congeniality, nodding at the blond Elf, “and Strider.” Melfren made a show of brushing the soil and grass from his leggings before ambling casually to stand tall over Elladan. “You, however, I do not know, and have no use for.”

The Noldo watched with rapt horror as the vile human’s long fingers flitted in the air, as though brushing aside a bothersome bug. He felt the wind rushing around him, under him, stinging his eyes so that Elladan closed them unwillingly. When he could no longer feel the ground under his knees, he flailed his arms as he tried to grab something, anything to cease his dizzying trajectory across the clearing. Elladan felt his head connecting with something solid, an impossibly loud snap ringing in his ears, before he knew no more.

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Melfren could hardly contain his laughter at the incredulity and horror upon the faces of the Elf and human. They had appeared to be fierce warriors as they had run to him, their weapons drawn and their faces full of hope and anger, but now they were slack, immobile, and completely vulnerable. Reveling in the familiar surge of supremacy at having control over those around him, the witch let himself laugh, his certainty of his success adding to his giddiness. _This is too easy. I had thought they would be some challenge._ He strode to the fallen, dark Elf, giving the prone form a brutal kick to the head. The Elf’s body turned over with the momentum, the inky hair obscuring the Elda’s face as his head lolled to the side at a sharp angle, and silvery, dark red blood spilled from his nose and a deep gash across his pale forehead.

“If you’ve no use for him, then leave him be.”

The witch turned, grimacing as the twist of his torso wrenched the arrow wound on his back. He did not see either captive speak but he knew it was the Ranger who had dared to order him, for the fraught human stared at the dark-haired Elf’s fallen body with undisguised alarm. Directing his reprimand at the human, Melfren shrugged his shoulders, grinning as he pulled his dagger from his waistband. “I’ve no use for you, either, Strider, except in your death.”

Melfren’s other captive was focused only on him, the murderous rage and intense loathing so evident in the Prince’s regarding, narrowed eyes that the witch grinned maliciously. _This one I hate more than the other,_ he decided of Legolas, his thoughts turning to the many ways he could make the Elf’s life slow to end. He could not remember what ills made his body’s previous owner hate these two beings, but Melfren did not care. Without full control over his commandeered body, the witch was weakened, and the riddance of the lingering detestation for the Elf and man before him was its only solution. _There is no reason why I cannot enjoy their deaths. I have not smelled the salty aroma of blood for far too long._

Using for support the trunk of the tree against which the he had thrown the dark Elf, the witch crouched beside the bleeding Elda, his dagger in hand. “I’ve no use for either of you. You would do well to remember that,” he explained to his captives.

He watched the Ranger, enjoying the human’s fearful ire as he traced the blade of the dagger over one ebony eyebrow of the fallen Elf, but the dagger fell from his grasp, landing in the tangle of black hair. The witch frowned, displeased to find his hand shaking as he retrieved his blade. _Instead of growing stronger, I grow weaker._

“I may have use for your companion later,” the witch ridiculed, bolstering his confidence by augmenting the Ranger’s fear. “He is strong. I am sure he will make a fine Orc.”

Strider’s glare deepened; thin purple lines crisscrossed the prominent, straining muscles of his neck, the veins standing out as the human endeavored to be free to move. “Do not touch him, Ament.”

Chuckling, Melfren gripped his dagger’s hilt more firmly to play it across the dark-haired Elf’s face, smearing the carmine fluid from the Elf’s nose along his cheekbone. “My name is no longer Ament. I am sure you will find me much more formidable than he was.”

“You are no different than Ament; he was cowardly, without honor.”

The hate he hoped soon to be free of, the odium that prevented him from gaining absolute control over his stolen body surged through him. Trying to stand, the witch stumbled, managing to stay upright only by his hold of the trunk beside him. Melfren quickly looked to the Elf and Ranger across the clearing, hoping that they did not see his weakness, nor notice his heavy breathing as he stood, moving deliberately this time. _I must kill them quickly._ Though his power over them had not decreased, though they remained motionless, the witch could feel the effort of maintaining his sorcery sapping his strength, and he knew delaying their deaths any longer would run the risk of his spell’s collapse, and thereby even the odds against him.

“Ament is no more, and I am no mere human,” the witch countered.

“Ament was a murderer, a thief, a liar. Whether you are known by your name or his,” the wrathful Ranger spoke again, his raspy voice breaking between words, "you are still no better than he.”

The barbs struck deep, though the witch did not know why. Festering virulence streamed through his awareness, breaking his concentration to maintain control over his failing body’s actions. So immersed was he in his odious, lingering need for retaliation that the witch stumbled once more, the short blade flying from his hands as he sought to retain his balance. He landed on all fours, fuming at the weakness of his legs and the loitering cause for his debility. _Leave. Die._ The lurking mercenary’s hatred for the Prince and human intensified with each of the Ranger’s taunts, pushing aside Melfren’s will as easily as the witch had routed out Ament’s consciousness. The dark-haired Elf’s sword lay on the ground before him; he seized it, rising to his feet in unsteady, jerky movements. _I will end this now – their lives and whatever is left of yours, Ament._

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His composure, like a bowstring stretched too far, was on the verge of snapping, and the image of Elladan’s lifeless face bent at an impossible degree towards his inert chest was enough to shatter the Ranger’s prudence. When he had seen his brother’s body flying through the air, Aragorn’s horror at being helpless to stop it was ameliorated only in that his taunting of the witch had captured Melfren’s attention away from the Noldo. However, now that the witch stood in front of them, angrier than before and Elladan’s sword in his hand, Aragorn felt foolish for his words, because though he may have saved his brother from immediate death or torture, he now had to watch the Prince die beside him, as immobilized and helpless as he, and his brother would soon follow. _Think of something, Estel. Stall him._

The witch’s appearance was terrifying: the mercenary’s mad demeanor of before was transcended by Melfren’s truly demented behavior. Three times now the witch had fallen, giving the Ranger hope that Melfren was not as well as he appeared. _He must have a failing. He is immortal, not invincible._

“You are wrong, Strider. Ament was a mere man, doomed to die, while I am not. Ament is departed.” Melfren wavered on his feet, his face feverish but pale. Intermittent expressions of calm and discontent flickered across the witch’s features, as though his mind could not decide how he should feel.

Elladan’s words from earlier returned to the Ranger: _We must locate him before he becomes Melfren entirely. He will flee to avoid our finding him._

The witch had not fled, he had returned, intent, for some reason unknown to Aragorn, to kill him and Legolas. Melfren made no mention of the forgotten goblet, and had not desired to slaughter Elladan as he wished to butcher the Prince and Ranger. Hoping to procure more time to find a way to use this information, he mocked the witch, saying without understanding the latent meaning of his taunt, “You only use Ament’s human body – you will suffer his weaknesses.”

Melfren’s glowered down at him silently. The conflicting emotions on the witch’s face swayed towards anger, replacing the previous affected calm. He replied, “You know nothing of it, Strider.” The witch swung Elladan’s sword through the air in front of the Ranger’s face, missing him by inches. “You call me a liar? You have lied since I first met you in Fulton. You say I’ve no honor? Do you think yourself less guilty of kidnapping than I?” The witch’s glower deepened, and he turned to the Wood-Elf. “But you are the murderer, aren’t you, Princeling? You and your kind.”

The witch’s condemnation registered in Estel’s mind but his focus lay in how Melfren spoke to him, rather than what was said. _He talks as though he were Ament,_ the Ranger noted, watching carefully how the witch scowled, and realizing that he needed to act soon, or this discernment would matter little.

“You are responsible,” the confused and angry witch whispered to the quiet Elf Prince. Melfren shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

_Perhaps the transformation is not yet complete,_ Estel thought, excitement causing him to sigh in relief.

He asked the witch, “For whose deaths?” In his peripheral vision, he could see the Wood-Elf turn his head to stare at him with bewilderment. He turned, also, facing Legolas for a moment, and saying nothing but willing the Elf to trust him. As though he had heard the Ranger’s silent plea, Legolas nodded and Estel continued, “For whose deaths, Ament? For your parent’s, for Ramlin’s?”

The mention of Ramlin caused the witch to stammer incoherently, his voice growing softer, his body trembling as he stepped forward, sword outthrust at Legolas. “You killed my brother,” the witch charged, the tip of Elladan’s sword resting on the Prince’s breastbone. “You killed my family. I promised you I would make you pay, Thranduilion.”

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The Ranger was baiting him. With every taunt, the witch felt the seedling hate within him grow until it had blossomed beyond his ability to control. _He knows. He knows I am weakened by Ament’s hatred for them._

Melfren heard the words he spoke to the blond Elda, saw himself place the blade upon the Elf’s breast, and knew the end of the Prince would follow, but it was not his volition that made it happen. _It does not matter,_ he decided, trying with all his might to press down upon the blade. _As long as they are dead, it does not matter._ The toil of sustaining his sorcery, of holding the two captives immobile, was weakening his ability to control Ament’s loathing. The witch retained his hold over the Elf and Ranger and spoke to the hatred, to Ament, _Have your revenge. Kill them and be done with it._

“Had I the chance, I would kill Ramlin again.”

The Wood-Elf’s words were not meant to taunt him; the Prince’s icy blue gaze and enraged sneer signified the sincerity of his declaration. An image of a burly man, his unseeing eyes opened to the sky and the shaft of an arrow visible above the thick throat, finally broke his tenacity, his spell over the human and Elf dissolved.

Hate was all he knew, all he could feel. He slowly pressed the blade’s point on Thranduilion's bare, bruised, and emaciated chest, his deleterious smirk spreading, as the Elf’s white skin broke open.

  
  



	28. Chapter 28

He had not meant to incite the human’s anger to this point but merely to delay the witch so that he could think of some plan, some way both to save Legolas and see Melfren dead. The Ranger had noted the witch’s odd behavior and knew that the transformation was not complete. That taunting the mercenary elicited Ament’s character to come forth was not lost on Aragorn, but despite this knowledge, he did not know how to avert the new tragedy he had instigated. Angering Melfren had only brought Legolas in immediate danger, and Estel didn’t know how else to stall.

If Legolas felt the blade piercing his chest, he did not show it. The obdurate Silvan stared at the witch with abhorrence. A trickle of bright blood ran down the shallow hole the witch had placed in the Prince’s breast; the blood welled around the blade of Elladan’s sword, its sharp point no longer visible but hidden in the rent flesh of the Wood-Elf’s chest. Melfren did not move. Aragorn watched in immersed horror as the witch’s face twitched uncontrollably, the disparate facial expressions vacillating between a calm resolve and passionate loathing. The Ranger’s body was primed to leap forward, to throw himself at the witch, to stop the sword’s progress. So ready, so eager was he that his every muscle was rigid in its opposition to the spell that held him.

When the halcyon determination on Melfren’s face finally gave way entirely to the recognizable, hateful scowl that he had seen Ament wear so often, when the darkened sky seemed to clear of limbs and clouds, and when the blade’s polished point sunk deeper into the Prince’s chest, Aragorn tumbled forward in astonishment. His body’s inert momentum to spring at the witch was finally realized: his body leapt forward but his surprise caused him to pull his lunge short. Aragorn abruptly found himself on his hands and knees, the toes of Ament’s feet several feet away.

The booted feet moved before the Ranger realized what had happened; he watched them walk forward, drawing his gaze to the Wood-Elf. The Prince tried to escape the threat of Elladan’s sword by falling onto his back and rolling. It was not until he saw Legolas move that Aragorn realized his own mobility and forthwith sought his sword on the ground. He seized the hilt firmly, using it as a crutch as he fumbled to stand and face the witch. The sudden actions had jerked open the still fresh, blistered and burnt puncture wounds of his chest and stomach, and Aragorn fought his swimming vision as he finally stood.

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Melfren had followed Legolas’ roll, his steps quicker than the injured Wood-Elf’s movements. The witch swung the blade quickly through the air, the sword hitting the hardened dirt beside the Elda’s head; the tinny ringing of the metal blade striking a rock sent small sparks flying in the Prince’s peripheral vision. _Get up,_ he ordered himself, his hands rummaging through the short grass around him to find his borrowed blade. The quiver Strider had given him had broken with his fall, and his arrows were scattered and splintered under him, the arrowheads lacerating his back and legs with shallow slices as he tried to scramble backwards and away from the advancing mercenary.

Legolas saw the Ranger stumble to his feet just as Melfren swung Elladan’s light, Elven sword through the air again. The bow he had dropped met his questing fingers and the Silvan brought the thin, curving piece of wood from beside him, arcing it through the air in front of his face to meet the witch’s potentially fatal swing. It was a pitiful attempt to fend off Melfren, but Legolas had no other options.

The blade struck the simple bow, shattering the wood into fragments and causing the taut bowstring to whip through the air. It licked across the Wood-Elf’s bare chest in a scoring, singing hiss. The force of Legolas’ swing threw Melfren’s aim from meeting its target – the Elf’s head. Instead, the witch’s blade was wrenched clumsily to the side. The Prince groaned when his already harried, tormented body sustained another injury, for the falling blade, while deflected from his throat, was pushed towards his side. The blade sank through his bicep, splitting the outermost flesh on the outside of his upper arm. Legolas rolled again, turning his back to the witch as he unconsciously curled in on himself from the pain of his gouged and slashed chest and his equally hurt arm.

“Do not run from me, Princeling,” the witch snickered, stepping on the long hair close to the Prince’s head to keep Legolas from rolling away yet again; the Wood-Elf did not budge, however, especially not when Melfren placed Elladan’s blade under his chin.

_Kill him Strider. Hurry._ Legolas would die happily, if he only he could see the witch’s demise, too. The witch glared down at him, his hatred and scowl as brilliant as the lightening blue sky above Melfren’s head. It was then that Legolas realized what the Ranger had: _The spell is broken. He is Ament once again._

“This is three times that you thought you could escape your punishment.” The mercenary grinned, his curled, crimson hair casting a shadow over Legolas and blocking the morning sun’s balmy radiance from hitting the Prince's frigid skin. Ament moved the tip of Elladan’s blade, bloodied with the Wood-Elf’s essence already, to rest at the base of Legolas’ throat. “You should have run faster, Elfling.”

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The human was on the verge of driving Elrohir mad. Jalian had not spoken since telling the story of his friend Meika; he had ceased weeping, though, and was once more drawing pointless patterns in the dirt beside him. The torchlight had long since sputtered its last oily flame, leaving the tunnel dark save for the soft light coming from the entrance. The tunnel was also now entirely silent, save for Jalian’s occasional sniffle or sob: each noise broke the Elf’s concentration, severing his tentative mental essay in ascertaining where Elladan was, and why he could no longer feel him. Usually a constant, familiar, and comforting presence within him, the lack of his twin’s consciousness was unsettling to Elrohir. _Always have I felt him, even in sleep or when we have been parted._ The Noldo tried again, focusing on his brother. _Where are you, Elladan?_

Jalian sniveled incoherently, inciting Elrohir’s head to snap up, a scathing castigation on his lips, when he noted that the mercenary’s weeping was renewed. _Great Valar, I cannot just sit here waiting for Elladan and the others to return._ Elrohir reached for Tirn’s wrist, assuring himself that the sentry was as well as could be expected, and that he would remain so for the time it would take the Noldo to go above ground. He could wait no longer to find out what had occurred.

“Jalian,” the Noldo said quietly, not wishing to startle the despondent human, who appeared lost in his miserable thoughts.

Drawn from his melancholy, the disfigured mercenary said nothing but looked questioningly at Elrohir. The Noldo did not desire to leave Tirn with Jalian but he lacked any other means of both seeing to the sentry’s welfare and his twin brother’s wellbeing, not to mention seeing to the well-being of Estel and Legolas, and the death of the witch. Once more, the healer checked his charge’s heartbeat, feeling the thready, weak pulse by placing his fingers on Tirn’s neck. Elrohir sighed, standing as he pointed to the sentry. “I need you to keep watch over him.”

Jalian’s reaction was immediate; the human rose from his seated position quickly, standing in front of Elrohir with blatant and very explicable fear in his eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Above.”

“You’re going to leave me in the dark? What am I supposed to do for him?” Jalian tilted his head towards the ruined sentry.

Elrohir had no patience for the human’s absurd questions, and so replied crossly, “There is nothing you can do for him.”

The mercenary shrank from the Noldo’s ire, lowering his head and rubbing his face clean of tears. Taking a deep breath, Elrohir placed his hand on the mercenary’s shoulder lightly, keeping his irritation from his voice, as he demanded, “If none of us return and Tirn still lives, take him to the Mirkwood patrol. Please. Inform them of what has happened.” With an odd, anxious look that caused Elrohir to vacillate in his choice to leave, Jalian nodded, agreeing to the Elf’s orders.

_I hope one of us returns for Tirn,_ Elrohir thought as he sprinted away, casting aside his apprehension at leaving the helpless sentry in the care of one of the Prince’s captors. _Please be all right, brothers._ Ahead of him was the open shaft that led out of the tunnel, the ladder glinting in the scant light that shone down through the natural grotto above. Elrohir did not hesitate when he reached the exit, but tightened the leather belt around his waist to keep it from becoming caught in the wrought rungs of the ladder. He fondled his empty scabbard with longing as he listened for any sounds from the outside, realizing, _I have given Elladan my sword. Wonderful._ Fast falling footsteps, not from outside the tunnel but from within, met his ears, and the Noldo turned, seeing Jalian running blindly around the bend and into view, brandishing a sword in his hands.

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Placing his booted foot on the Prince’s chest, the mercenary pressed down, enjoying the audible crack of the Elf’s rib and the battered creature’s choking attempt at breathing. He could sympathize with the Elf’s inability to breathe. Only hours earlier he had been struggling to overcome the wound the Prince's arrow had caused, a wound that by the witch’s power was now healing though still painful. _Look behind us, fool._ Ament listened to the advice without thinking; he was an intense, elementary hatred that Melfren had been forced to acquiesce to, if only to complete this one task, and had little volition of his own beyond his desire to kill. The mercenary lifted his edge from the Elf’s throat, seeing the Prince immediately twist his contused and bleeding body away: the Wood-Elf did not rise, but wrapped his arms around himself, sputtering and coughing violently. _The Ranger is behind us._

The mercenary spun around; Elladan’s sword spun round with him, the burnished blade swinging wildly through the air as Ament moved. It connected with an uproarious clash of metal on metal as it met the Ranger’s blade, sending shivering jolts of pain up Melfren’s arm and his sword to the ground. He could not retrieve the fallen weapon, for the Ranger stepped forward with his weapon still extended, blocking the witch from reaching the dropped blade safely. _They will kill us. Move, you idiot. Do not stand between them._ Ament ducked Strider’s next swing, though he felt the rush of air and heard the sibilance of the blade over his head.

Instinctively, and now without a weapon, the witch ran towards the only object in the clearing capable of making the Ranger halt his attack. He ran towards the dark-haired Elf on the ground, and the dagger he had dropped close by.

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Legolas’ vision was black and his chest heaved painfully. He could feel his newly broken rib puncturing the flesh around it. His lungs burned and with each pained breath, he inhaled more blood than air. Coughing only exacerbated his agony and inability to breathe but he could not seem to stop. _You leave a human child to perform your duties. Rise._ The Wood-Elf crawled to his hands and knees, opened his eyes, and concentrated on dissipating the black that blanketed the world around him. There were countless specks of blood on the grass under him, splinters of wood and the occasional arrowhead – nothing that would help him. Looking up, he saw Ament running to Elladan, who still lay motionless and pale against the tree trunk across the clearing.

He pushed himself up with his hands so that he knelt, his eyesight darkening with dancing black streaks. Strider bound after the mercenary, his pace desperate and frenzied as he tried, in his injured state, to reach Elladan before Ament. Legolas looked around him for Elrohir’s sword, his own fraught actions too fast for his failing body, but his hand lit upon the sharp edge of the Elven blade, slicing his palm in his carelessness to gain hold of the weapon. The Prince groaned, rising to his feet in erratic, wobbly movements. _I will see you dead._

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The mercenary stopped unexpectedly, stooping to the ground a few feet before Elladan to pick up a dagger. Aragorn did not cease running, his desire to keep the insane human from reaching his Elven brother paramount in the Ranger’s mind. Despite his sudden stop, the mercenary reached Elladan first; however, Ament did not have time to threaten the unconscious Noldo, for Estel was upon him, his sword already sweeping through the air. Again, the mercenary ducked, falling to his knees even as he flung the short blade he had picked up from the ground.

Aragorn felt the incising metal strike his chest. It did not dampen his determination to cleave the grinning mercenary’s head in two, nor did it stop his blade from its flight. His sword missed once more, however, for his arm, injured just the previous morning from Doran’s arrow, failed him as he tried to recoup his off-balanced swing. The Ranger realized that the same dagger that Ament had stabbed into his upper arm and held at his throat more than once was now protruding from his chest, its hilt twisting in an indecent manner with his slightest movement. Although the wound did not pain him, the Ranger dropped to his unfeeling knees in front of Ament, his sword tumbling from his numbed fingers. The mercenary’s grin grew wider, his victory over the Ranger finally achieved.

Ament’s gaze left the young human before him, and Estel watched the mercenary grapple with the tree trunk behind him, reaching his feet quickly. Waiting for Ament to finish him off, or worse yet, now to kill Elladan, the Ranger watched with stunned marvel as the suddenly pusillanimous mercenary backed away, the scowl cleared from his tanned face to be replaced by fear. Grinning with unaware delight at the fear on the mercenary’s face, the Ranger observed the mercenary withdraw into the underbrush around them before turning on heel to flee into the forest.

_Legolas._

The Prince ran past the Ranger, Elrohir’s sword in hand. It was the last that Aragorn saw ere he closed his eyes and toppled over onto the soft grass of the clearing.

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He became completely still, thinking, _Something has happened to Tirn._ The abnormal smile Jalian wore as he jogged down the hall did not portend such an excuse for the mercenary to follow him, though, and Elrohir stepped away from the wall automatically so that he was not backed into a corner. Elladan’s distrust of the human tainted Elrohir’s conclusion of Jalian’s intentions, and so the twin prepared himself for a scuffle. Throwing a glance at the ladder, the Noldo realized that the oncoming, armed mercenary had the advantage, because Elrohir would not flee, not with Tirn still within the tunnel. Jalian stopped several paces in front of him, the short sword held out limply towards the Noldo. Elrohir tensed for the attack.

“Here,” the mercenary stated, shaking the weapon in Elrohir’s direction. “Thought you might need this, mate.” The Noldo did not reach for the sword; Jalian looked down at the blade as though trying to determine what kept the Elf from taking it. He frowned, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve ere turning the pommel of the weapon to Elrohir. “The Prince had mine but left it and took Ament’s, and as your brother has yours…,” the disfigured human explained in a short-lived ramble, shrugging as he waved the sword again at Elrohir.

“Thank you.” Elrohir grabbed the proffered hilt, taken aback by the mercenary’s good will. Jalian merely smiled his peculiar grin before he hastened back down the dark tunnel, back to Tirn.

The Noldo slid the short sword under his belt and climbed the ladder. _I believe you are wrong to distrust Jalian,_ the Noldo thought as though speaking to his doubting twin. But his unanswered thoughts only accentuated his brother’s absence, and an alarmed Elrohir climbed the ladder, pulling himself into the narrow space within the warped tree trunks. Nearly throwing himself through the aperture between the trunks, the Noldo crawled quickly, his unease mounting at the silence permeating the forest.

A flash of blond hair flying through the trees beyond the clearing caught Elrohir’s attention as soon as he righted himself from his crawl. _Legolas._ With all intentions of catching the Prince, to question him as to what was occurring and where his brothers were, the Noldo ran forward. Elrohir’s step faltered when he saw the two lifeless bodies lying near each other at the base of a tree. _Brothers._

  
  



	29. Chapter 29

He stifled the urge to look down at his unfeeling feet, to make certain that it was he that was moving; he could not be sure that the forest was not rushing around him instead of he through the forest. Legolas was caught in the undertow of the many layers in Ilúvatar’s song; each called to him, trying vainly to capture his ear, but he heeded only one. Hatred and desperation fueled his movements – a wrathful melody of his own making.

Waves of grief assaulted the Prince in an unrelenting symphony of agony and despair, their undercurrents a lulling, tremulous overture to his every melancholy thought and failing body’s action. Everywhere there was music: the trees sang to him as he ran, their discordant sonata of indifference, joy, and sympathy all familiar to him, and were a bastion against the undulating sorrow that threatened to plunge him into its depths. The song of the forest, together each tree’s aria normally an omnipresent, comforting chorus to the Wood-Elf, was fading from his soul.

The leaves in the tall, gnarled trees were blurring together, such that Legolas could no longer see the branches above him as he flung himself forward along the uneven terrain of exposed roots. A vague smear of a pale sky would interrupt the shadows overhead on occasion, but he focused on the running human before him; the greedy degenerate was the sole image distinguishable amongst the blackening shadows of tree trunks and underbrush that the Wood-Elf dodged. Startled birds flew out of the bushes ahead of the Prince, and though he heard their soft calls of alarm, he could not see them. All the brilliant hues of his homeland were now merely shades of gray. The color of the forest was fading.

A briny odor drifted to Legolas from ahead, adding to the Prince’s barely contained longing to lose himself in the increasingly ashen haze obscuring his vision and thinking. He could smell the blood from the arrow wound on Ament’s back, an injury that the archer was satisfied to have caused. The mercenary had torn the healing wound open with his mad sprint through Mirkwood but it was not enough to slow the human from his own desperate endeavors in running. Though he moved as gracefully as he could hope to in his current condition, the Prince could not catch the stumbling human. He followed the blossom of crimson on the human’s back nonetheless, for he wanted to destroy the brightly sanguine imperfection in the eclipsed world around him. He wanted to smell nothing but the salty aroma of the human’s blood. He wanted to hear Ament’s dying breath.

Legolas looked briefly at his hand to verify that he held Elrohir’s sword. He could no longer feel his fingers, and could thus not feel his white knuckled grip on the blade’s pommel. _He will die by an Elven blade,_ the Elda reaffirmed while remembering Strider’s words earlier when he had handed the Prince the sword. The Wood-Elf had witnessed Ament’s dagger strike the Ranger’s chest, he had seen Elladan’s lifeless body as he ran after the mercenary, and Legolas knew that Tirn lay dying in the same tunnel where he would have met the same fate, had not the sentry come looking for him. Elrohir would be tormented by the loss of his brothers, perhaps to the point of passing from Arda, and the Wood-Elf felt himself already doing the same. Anguish trumpeted its somber addition to the oeuvre of existence around him: he held no hope for Strider, for Elladan, or for Tirn. His buoyant hatred for Ament kept him afloat in his etiolated, choking consciousness, and he held as tightly to his ambition for carnage as he did his sword. _I will watch him die._

They had sped through the forest for only minutes, though it had seemed an eternity to the Prince because his every step brought pain. His flesh ached; there was not a part of his body that had gone unscathed. The jaw marks around his leg, the arrow wound to his thigh, the scoring lash across his breast, and the bruises and lacerations from Ramlin’s revolting lust renewed their indignant protest.

His body cried out to him in throbbing disapproval. Each sour breath was ripped from his chest; the exertion of running, in addition to the inability of his lacerated, pierced, and likely punctured lungs to draw in air, made Legolas feel as though he were suffocating slowly. Whether by his weakening lungs or fading soul, which one caused the obfuscation of the forest through which he ran he did not know, but he was pulled inexorably into its accompanying rhythm. The Prince had spent many of his childhood years swimming in the shallows of the Forest River, the twisting, lazy current the cadence to which he had sang, played, and spent time with his Naneth. A similar meter barraged him now, immersing him in its soothing, flowing timbre. Memories of his mother sitting with him on the rock bank, the sound of the swelling river’s water sifting through the pebble and stone shore, arose within him. He tried to ignore his body’s dying, grieving rhythm, to moor his consciousness to the fleeing mercenary, and to avoid drowning in despair. If the mercenary were not stopped now, his father and Mirkwood might still be in peril, and he knew he would not survive long enough to warn either.

The briny smell of Ament’s blood, the crescendoing murmur of his stricken soul, and the monochromatic forest around him, dull except for the mercenary’s rubicund soaked tunic, promised a sea of refuge to the Wood-Elf. He had little energy left and would welcome this new tune with no remorse if given the chance. He wanted nothing more than to stop to listen to it, not to care, to relive the moments spent in the company of his loving family, safe and blameless in his home.

Ahead of him, the mercenary stumbled again, crashing to his knees with a frightened cry, and Legolas exerted the last of his spirit to reach the fallen human. When he felt that his lungs would burst with need for air, and when his legs finally buckled under him out of exhaustion and injury, the archer threw himself towards the now rising Ament. _You have thrice chased me through the forest,_ the Silvan thought, plummeting painfully to the floor of twisted roots across which the mercenary had been running. _And thrice you have caught me, Ament._ His arms connected with the human’s legs, entangling around and between the mercenary’s shins to throw the man down. _But now you are the one who has been caught._

Ament fell onto his stomach and let loose a wild cry of fear ere he began kicking his feet, trying frantically to remove the clinging Elf that he could not shed. With his sword in hand, the Prince crawled over the mercenary’s prone form, dragging his light blade along the ground with him as he used the weight of his numb body to pin the human to the serpentine roots under them, but Ament was not so easily contained, even weaponless and injured. Using his fists, his feet, and the rest of his squirming body, the mercenary contorted, pushed, and pummeled the Wood-Elf away from him; he still could not be free of the Elf, for Legolas held tightly to the human’s clothing, dragging the sword ever closer to the human. He could not seem to raise his hand to pierce the human on it, his arm moved sluggishly, struggling against the aegir of the moribund, dolorous melody that washed over him, while the man’s flailing kept the Wood-Elf shifting and unable to take advantage of his superior position.

The archer moved to his knees, grinding them into the small of Ament’s back as he tried to debilitate the mercenary. His evasion of the human’s blows did not last long – Ament’s elbow connected with Legolas’ stomach. All the air left the Prince’s chest in concomitant evacuation of his senses. He fell forward, slack and reconciled against the human’s back, his head landing on the thick roots above the mercenary’s shoulder. Immediately, the mercenary began to wriggle his way from underneath the Prince, tossing the Elf about, and groaning from the pain his movements caused his own injuries.

The Prince could hear the berceuse of death tempting him to release his weary body, and the pulse of his heart slowed in response. Ament crept upwards, slithering out from under the Silvan. Wanting nothing more than to fade, to let the waves of grief and despair take him under, Legolas was brought abruptly back to his wits when the mercenary’s bloodstained tunic slid under him, smearing the briny liquid across his bare, agonized torso.

Opening his eyes, the Wood-Elf saw the claret on the moving mercenary’s back and inhaled deeply. He coveted the salty aroma, desiring to spill the human’s blood so that he could yield his own lifeblood and faer to the forest. The Elf pushed himself up, first grabbing the wriggling human’s tunic so that Ament could not flee far. He seized the human’s hair as he scrambled to regain his position over the mercenary, and then shoved the mercenary’s skull against the bed of gnarled roots, halting Ament’s attempts at escape and eliciting a moan from him instead: however, the respite did not last long, and the human began thrashing once more.

His other arm still lay mostly slack, the light sword moving unhurriedly, scraping the bark on the exposed roots as the Prince strained to stay aware. “Coward,” the panting mercenary charged, wrenching his head, and a large tuft of hair, from Legolas’ hand. “Will you stab me in the back? And the Ranger dared call me a coward without honor.”

Breathing was far too difficult a task for the archer for him to risk speaking, and so the Elf snatched the man’s head again, driving it against the roots clumsily. He scrambled awkwardly to his knees and bashed Ament’s face into the trees’ foundation to keep him still, and then twice more, each followed by an agonized wail from Ament, to maintain the human’s submission. With a knee on either side of the mercenary’s waist, the Prince straddled the momentarily stunned Ament and lifted Elrohir’s sword so that he could hold it in both hands.

The red bloom beckoned to the Prince. He needed resolution; he needed to fade.

“Coward,” the mercenary reiterated when Legolas placed the pointed blade between the vulnerable human’s shoulder blades.

Around him, the gray darkened its shade, bedimming the whole of his home in ghostly shadows; even with his impaired vision, and the overwhelming urgency of his grief’s tempo, Legolas could see the shadow descending from high in the blurred branches above him and the mercenary.

A spider, ebony and unwelcome as the rings tingeing Legolas’ peripheral vision, was leisurely lowering itself from a single silken filament.

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The Elf had paused, his sword gouging into the mercenary’s back. The lapse in movement inspired the witch to hope Ament’s words held some sway over the motionless creature atop him. The Prince had only stiffened, however, and Melfren closed their eyes in impatience. _This is it. All this turmoil and I am still to die a mortal death._

The thin blade rose from their back only to descend again, piercing their torso in a swift, violent, and forceful motion. The well-honed metal scraped along the bones, slicing through the flesh and organs easily. The Wood-Elf leant on the pommel as he stood, impaling the witch thoroughly and tacking the human to the roots underneath. Ere Melfren had time to react, the Prince was standing over him, wrenching the sword from the skewered human as he pressed the witch down with his foot to disengage the mercenary from the sword.

But then, as Melfren arched forward in pain, shifting to his side to clutch his stomach and watch the Wood-Elf deal his final blow, the Elf suddenly recoiled, shuffling quickly away from him. Melfren could feel the emotionless violence emanating from the dying Elda and wondered, _Why do you hesitate? Kill us, you fool_. The witch welcomed death; his run through the forest had convinced him that he would die regardless, as their wounds were overwhelming him at the physical exertion it had required to sprint and his magic-borne energy was spent.

However, the mercenary’s anger was eclipsing his hold over Melfren’s borrowed body, and the sight of the Prince, his Elven blade dripping blood while he stood back to watch their slow death, incited Ament’s wrath in a pyre of grief and frustration. Melfren could feel the mercenary returning, could remember the man’s memories, and felt Ament begin to take full control over their actions. Though Melfren had allowed Ament’s anger to prevail so that he could rid himself of the mercenary’s vestiges, the witch realized now his hold was slipping, and if the Silvan didn’t kill him quickly, he would soon be cast back into the nothingness, leaving Ament here to die. This could not happen: the witch wanted to die, for anything was better than the void in which he had waited for this opportunity at immortality. The goblet’s hex was cast, and there would be no more chances for the witch to return from his meaningless continuation in nonexistence. The Prince’s emotionless mask broke, and his bloodied, bruised lips curled into a grin, lighting his beaten face, while his cold blue eyes focused just above Melfren’s head.

It was Ament who turned to look above them, seeing the shaggy, black haired legs dangling from a branch overhead. In a rush of loathing, the mercenary tried to twist his body from under the advancing spider, to evade the Dark creature. Unlike Melfren, Ament held hope that he may live yet, despite his dire circumstances. He tried rolling to his side, his vision momentarily blackening at the lancing agony of his pierced torso and his inability to breathe. _This is not over. Get up._

Melfren halted their evasion of the spider, and instead gripped the roots under them, holding them tightly to the ground. _Leave, Ament._ The long, hairy leg of a spider brushed against his face; it was their only warning before feeling the spider’s fangs stabbed deeply into their shoulder. Ament loosened Melfren’s hold of one hand, swinging it around, knocking the arachnid from them before it could pump its venom. Still trying to stand, the mercenary turned to the Prince, feeling his hatred rise and with it the resurgence of his control.

Two more spiders had drifted down from their webs above, drawn by the death and blood on the beings below. Together with the first, one of the newcomers attacked the mercenary. He could avoid neither, and screamed in horror as their fangs filled him with burning, acidic poison. The Wood-Elf watched silently, his sword hanging limply at his side. A sentinel spider stood before the motionless Wood-Elf as if expecting the Prince to help the suffering human. It did not attack the dying Silvan; even the Dark creatures could sense the promise of bloodshed in the immobile, unconcerned Legolas.

“For the first time,” the mercenary choked, knowing from his short-lived experience as an immortal that the Elf could hear him, despite his failing voice. “For the first time, Ramlin did not fail me. You will die, Thranduilion, along with your friends. We still have our revenge.”

The human managed a laugh, his hatred satisfied to see the Silvan flinch at his words. He stared at the Elf, the familiar odium pushing the witch from him, filling his veins as steadily as the spider venom coursing through his body. Between the legs of the spiders crawling over him, ramming their fangs into his skin and weaving their webs over his faintly struggling limbs, he could see that Legolas stared back at him.

Ament cried out, his dying breaths slipping from his lips in guttural rasps when the spiders sank their fangs into his flesh repeatedly. He writhed on the bed of roots, his body convulsing. Ament locked his gaze on the Wood-Elf’s eyes. Tortured screams began pouring from his mouth, though a smug smile graced his face.

_We have our revenge, Ramlin._

In a final burst of effort, the mercenary exhaled his last, his body becoming limp under the scurrying spiders.

  
  



	30. Chapter 30

Elrohir had crawled free from the tunnel’s exit to see his twin and human brother lying motionless on the ground; he had promptly forgotten all the many years of training he had undergone in healing, for nothing could have prepared him for his panic at seeing both his brothers unconscious, bleeding, and seemingly dead. His recreant skills had returned when he had seen the hilt of a dagger obtruding from the Ranger’s chest, and he had ran across the clearing, forgetting his intent to question Legolas, who had quickly disappeared into the surrounding forest without the Noldo’s further notice.

He had forced himself into checking the pulses of Aragorn and Elladan; the stale breath in his lungs that he had held with dread of finding that Estel or Elladan were dead had burned until he had finally felt the confirmation that his brothers were living. After seeing that his twin’s neck was not broken, the Noldo had quickly carried Elladan, laying him beside the Ranger so that he could keep watch over his twin while seeing to the horrific sight of the dagger hilt protruding from the unconscious Ranger. To reach the horrifying wound on the Ranger’s chest, the Noldo had painstakingly cut through the human’s leather overcoat and then tunic, removing the impediments with care. He wanted to see how gruesome the injury truly was, but he had not wanted to remove the dagger until he could see the depth of its entry. It had been to Elrohir’s delight that the mercenary’s dagger had become caught mostly in the leather and cloth instead of in his human brother’s chest, and though the point had pierced the flesh, it had been stopped by the Ranger’s ribs and not Aragorn’s heart or lung.

Elrohir had tended his twin only after seeing to the worst of Aragorn’s wounds, for Elladan’s injuries had also appeared much worse than they truly were, and the elder twin had merely suffered a broken collarbone and what would be a tremendous headache when he awoke. The laceration across his twin’s forehead would eventually need sewing but the break in Elladan’s bone had not been hard to set. Elrohir knew that with more time and tending than either wounded brother would be willing to tolerate, the Ranger and twin would mend.

 _You should thank whatever animal has given its hide to save yours,_ the Noldo mused distractedly, moving the tattered leather of the Ranger’s overcoat out of his way to see that the white cloth over the human’s chest wound had grown no redder with blood. _He is in shock, I am sure of it,_ Elrohir decided as he examined the Ranger’s coloring and checked the human’s rapid heartbeat. The slight rise and fall of the Ranger’s chest with his shallow breathing was reassuring to the Noldo, despite the human’s pallor. Compelled to check on his twin yet again, the Noldo reached over Estel, holding Elladan’s wrist between his fingers to feel the steady, familiar beat of his twin’s pulse. He did not need the physical confirmation of his twin’s well-being to know that Elladan was well, however, for he could feel it. Elladan was waking slowly from his soporose injuries, and the brief but agonizing absence from his twin’s being was ameliorated with each passing moment of increasing awareness on Elladan’s part.

With both his brothers tended as well as he could manage in such circumstances, the stunned Noldo had nothing to do but worry. Glancing around the clearing, Elrohir scanned the destruction, damage that gave him no clues as to what had happened, or what was happening now. Splintered arrows were strewn about the forest floor, the discarded possessions of the mercenaries littered the area, and Estel’s shattered bow lay forgotten across the way. It may well have been a massacre, as much wreckage as Elrohir could see, but there was little blood, and no fallen enemies.

His foremost worry caused Elrohir to reassure himself, _Legolas will find the witch. I know it. He is too stubborn not to find him,_ the Noldo decided. He wanted to make certain that Melfren was dead, that the Prince was well, but he could not leave his brothers injured and defenseless in the Mirkwood Forest, nor did he think that the Wood-Elf would want him to do so.

“Legolas will not let him escape,” Elrohir told the quiet clearing. Hearing the words aloud boosted the Noldo’s belief in them, and he smiled down at his brothers, his worry subsiding in momentary relief at seeing his family safe and the witch’s downfall portended.

Taking a roll of bandaging in hand, the healer began to wind the linen around his human sibling’s forearm. “You look like a pin cushion, muindor,” the Noldo told Aragorn in a whisper. Upon removing the Ranger’s overcoat and tunic earlier, the wounds that Elrohir had not seen or could not tend while in the witch’s tunnels were laid bare. The Ranger had been stabbed in the stomach, his upper arm, and his legs and throat were covered in shallow gouges. A jagged puncture in the human’s arm had been poorly wrapped and left mostly untreated; it looked to the Noldo healer that the wound was caused by an arrow that someone had merely ripped from Aragorn’s forearm.

However, it was the burns on Estel’s stomach and the side of his chest that Elrohir had found to be the most gruesome, for the flesh was scored deeply, the punctures scorched and raw, and the Noldo had wept at the pitiful sight of the young healer’s lacerated torso. He was proud of his human brother, though, and reminded himself with a smile of relief that the Ranger would be awake later to hear him say it. _Ada will be proud of him, also._ Though he had yet to hear the story of all that had occurred, he had seen the violence that Ament and his brother Ramlin were capable of, and so could only imagine what the human had undergone to keep Legolas and himself alive.

Elrohir cut the bandaging, sitting the roll on the Ranger’s stomach. Tucking in the end of the linen he had wrapped around the human’s forearm, the Noldo began to shudder violently when tormented screams echoed unexpectedly throughout the still forest. The woodland birds singing their morning melodies in the boughs of the trees squawked shrilly in surprise, and the clear sky overhead was momentarily darkened by the shadows of their flight. _Sweet Eru._ The rolled bandaging fell from its resting place on the Ranger’s belly. Elrohir watched it without truly seeing as the white linen unfurled across Aragorn’s bared stomach, tumbling over and down the Ranger’s side before falling to the forest floor. It rambled, teetering back and forth in its wayward progress to paint a white line amidst the emerald, trampled grass, until it came to a stop upon hitting Elladan’s side.

_He is dying._

So close did the failing wails of the mercenary sound that when Elrohir closed his eyes, he could imagine the mouth that made them, the thin lips that had scowled at him while taunting Elrohir and Elladan with Aragorn’s life. Elrohir could imagine those same lips licked clean by the foul tongue hidden behind them, the mouth tainted with Tirn’s blood. Through what seemed to Elrohir to be a haze of ash, the Noldo could see Ament screaming, and smiling, as though he were standing nearby the mercenary. Around the human was only an anemic, waxen version of the forest, which seemed to be dimming with each slowing beat of the mercenary’s heart.

He opened his eyes but the fantasy did not leave him. No clearing, no camp, and no brothers were around him; instead, Elrohir could still see the mercenary, his smiling mouth ajar from the last of his keening howls, his limbs as contorted and warped as the bed of twisted roots on which he lay. _I am watching Ament die,_ the Noldo thought. The mortal’s voice gave out, its final bellow sputtering until the forest was quiet once more, and the stillness returning though the peace remained absent.

_Elrohir. He is dead._

The Noldo jumped at the voice resounding throughout his head, his knees rising from the ground several inches; thrusting his arms out for balance, Elrohir barely caught himself before falling forwards onto Aragorn’s chest. He rose so that he stood on his knees and looked aimlessly about as though to survey the clearing around him, but still he was blind to all, all but the dead human and the huge, glossy backs of the arachnids preying on Ament’s blood and flesh. Recognition came to the Noldo when he became mired in sorrow and grief, submerged in a symphony of tormented desolation that was accompanied by a palliative, satisfied relief so overwhelming that Elrohir felt tears sting his eyes at the joy of such release. The desolation he had felt once before, however, and the confused Imladrian realized that his thoughts were connected to the Wood-Elf's mind. The sensations were similar to those he had when aiding the Prince in finding the arrow that killed his attacker, but Elrohir had not had such a coherent image of the surroundings then as he did now. The Noldo could see what the Prince was seeing. Moreover, Elrohir realized that it was the Silvan’s slackening heartbeat, and not the human’s, that was the cadence by which the image was slowly fading to black.

 _Legolas?_ The Prince’s utmost relief at seeing the mercenary’s demise became instantly clear to Elrohir. _Not yet, Legolas,_ he begged, his restless hands finding the unused bandaging draped over the Ranger’s chest. He stuffed the linen back into his bag in absentminded, unnecessarily forceful motions. _You cannot let go. I need you here. Legolas?_

The Prince looked down and Elrohir’s insight changed. A single, deadly spider was creeping towards the Silvan, its hesitation apparent in its slow moving limbs. _Come back, Legolas._ But the Wood-Elf did not respond, and the arachnid’s timidity became daring; the wounded Elf before it did not wield the weapon he held in hand. Picking each of its hairy, knobbed legs from the ground in a ghoulish, slow dance, the spider charily walked closer to the Wood-Elf. Elrohir became desperate; the distress of seeing the Prince’s abuse returned to him, and once more, he felt helpless to stop the events he could only observe.

And so the Noldo beseeched Legolas, using the Prince’s sense of duty, that which had kept the Wood-Elf from fading thus far, to endeavor to keep the stricken archer from yielding. _You cannot leave us alone in Mirkwood, Legolas. Elladan is injured, Aragorn is injured, and what of Tirn? I cannot protect them all, nor take them to safety without your help._

Tightening his grip on Elrohir’s sword, Legolas replied, _I am tired, friend._

 _Not yet. You can rest later, Legolas._ Elrohir’s panic grew, for he could feel the Wood-Elf surrendering to the undulating gray waves that pummeled Legolas’ grieving soul. _I need your help now, my friend. Please, Legolas._ The Noldo hoped that the Wood-Elf did not discern the true source of the desperation behind his pleas: he could not leave his brothers to find the Prince, but nor could he merely let Legolas die in the forest alone. Although his conscience burned at his seemingly callous words, Elrohir wanted Legolas back in the clearing with him, and so he ordered, using the Silvan’s full name to remind the Wood-Elf of his obligation, _You must guide your guests to the palace, Prince Legolas Thranduilion._

The Wood-Elf closed his eyes in misery, and the Noldo reeled as both the darkness and desolation dominated him.

When Legolas felt the foreign pressure against his leg, Elrohir experienced the Wood-Elf’s body moving backwards instinctively in a violent jerk; the Prince swung the sword in his hand, the flat of the blade merely knocking the arachnid from its attempt to sink its poisonous fangs into his leg. While the spider fell away, struggling to keep upright, Legolas fumbled backwards through the underbrush, withdrawing from the immediate danger the spider proffered. The inky figure did not crash through the thick bushes to reach the Elda: it had another meal waiting for it, and the Wood-Elf had not been as docile as it had believed.

_Come back to the clearing, Legolas._

As the Wood-Elf staggered away from the spiders and Ament’s remains, Elrohir was caught in a dizzying flurry of withered shapes, which he gathered must be what Legolas saw as he whirled about to leave. _I am weary, Elrohir,_ the Silvan thought, _but I will help you._

“Elrohir?”

He blinked, and the clearing was before him in all its ruin, his pale, fallen brothers lay on the ground, and the Wood-Elf was gone from his mind.

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Elladan had awoken only moments before to see his brother murmuring under his breath, his eyes unfocused, and his demeanor one of utter panic. The Noldo had tried to sit up at seeing his twin’s suffering: he had been forced back into laying on the grass when he had tried to roll onto his side to rise, for the action had disrupted his broken collarbone. Piercing pain had stolen his breath, and he had collapsed back onto the ground.

What his brother saw across the clearing Elladan could not tell, but the horror and alarm with which Elrohir was staring into the distance had frightened the Noldo, and now, as his twin blinked at him, looking blankly at Elladan as though he could not see him, the elder twin prompted again, “Elrohir?”

“Muindor,” the younger Elf mumbled, wide-eyed and confused. Elladan watched his brother’s hand fumble to find Estel’s throat, checking for the Ranger’s pulse instinctively though his unseeing gaze did not move from Elladan’s worried stare. “Ament is dead.”

_Thank the Valar._

“What of Aragorn? How is he, Elrohir? What has happened?” Twisting his neck to see the human in question, the Noldo scraped the tender, swollen lump on the side of his head against the ground and accidentally pulled free the bandage Elrohir had wound over the gash on his forehead. He did not notice.

 _He is too pale,_ Elladan determined, taking in that the Ranger’s normally weather beaten and suntanned skin was chalky. Reaching out, Elladan grabbed the human’s hand to feel for himself the life there.

“He will be fine, brother,” the young twin replied distractedly, standing and stepping over the Ranger in a nimble, rapid movement, before alighting on his knees in the grass next to Elladan. “His body is exhausted but he will be fine.” Elrohir smiled gently and reached under his twin’s neck, lifting his brother’s head to adjust the linen so that it covered the wound once again. “And you will be too, if you will be still.”

Smiling back at his twin, Elladan let his brother’s assurance comfort him: the twins had never been able to lie to each other, not even as children, and so now, Elladan did not doubt Elrohir in the least. “What has happened?” With sudden remembrance of where they were, Elladan recalled why he and the Ranger were injured, and thus queried, “Where is Legolas?”

“I do not know what has happened. I was hoping to ask of you the same.” Elrohir lightly pressed his fingers along Elladan’s broken bone to see that his setting of it had not been disturbed; the twin winced in unwitting sympathy with each grimace of pain from Elladan. “I left Tirn with Jalian below. When I exited the tunnel, I found you and Aragorn unconscious here in the clearing. I saw Legolas running through the forest after Ament.”

 _That would explain why the Prince is not here,_ Elladan complained, frustrated by his inability to find out from his twin what had happened. “Then how do you know that Ament is dead?”

“I watched him die.” Shaking his head, the younger Elf’s face fell, and his demeanor became distant. “I could see him in Legolas’ thoughts.”

His exasperation evaporated to be replaced by sorrow for his brother’s anguish. “Ament is dead, then, brother. All will be well,” Elladan tried to placate, but Elrohir merely shook his head again, staring despondently, expectantly into the woods behind them.

  
  



	31. Chapter 31

“Enough, Elladan,” the worried Noldo demanded and then pushed his twin forcefully back to the ground, vexed that Elladan would not remain lying down. “You are going nowhere.” Elladan did not try to rise again, at least, not immediately; Elrohir held his brother by his shoulders and did not relent. “This is thrice now I have set his break. I grow tired of watching you suffer through it.”

“Perhaps if you would let me rise before setting it we would not be forced to reenact this travesty,” Elladan spat in anger and pain.

Elrohir sighed, his brother’s accusing tone causing him to wonder, _Sweet Eru, muindor, do you think I would have the Prince die?_

Aloud, however, the Noldo healer explained, “Legolas promised he would come back to the clearing.” Straightening the bandage around Elladan’s head, Elrohir told his brother, unable to meet his scrutinizing gaze, “I felt his grief. Legolas is dying but he promised he would return to us.”

Elladan studied his twin with frustrated worry at Elrohir’s admission; Elrohir replaced his hands on his elder brother’s shoulders at the facial expression. “Legolas is not able to keep that promise, Elrohir. One of us should look for him.”

“He promised to find Ament to kill him and this promise he kept,” the younger twin offered weakly. Abruptly letting loose his twin’s shoulders, Elrohir stood in a graceful motion, glaring down at Elladan, and daring him to try sitting up again.

“Thank the Valar. The Wood-Elf’s stubbornness saved us all. I was of little help,” the eldest of Elrond’s sons grumbled. “Nor was Aragorn, from the looks of it.” The Ranger in question was sleeping fitfully, having not yet awoken though he was not as deathly still as before: Estel was regaining consciousness gradually, his exhausted and maltreated body demanded rest. Elladan reached out beside him, stretching his arm out to the human. Speaking so softly that Elrohir had to lean over his twin to hear, Elladan whispered, “I am not ready to lose him.”

“Nor am I. Nor will I ever be.” Quickly kneeling beside Elladan again, Elrohir added, “We did not lose him, muindor. We _will_ not lose him.”

Elladan fumbled in the grass beside Aragorn’s arm, searching for the young human’s hand but unable to bend his stiff, aching neck or lift himself without disturbing his broken collarbone so that he could see to find it. Taking Estel’s hand in his, Elrohir guided it to Elladan’s, who gripped the Ranger’s limb as though if he let go, Elrohir’s assurance that they would not lose the young human would be refuted.

“Just be still, Elladan,” his twin begged, standing again and glancing about the clearing. _We need water._

Elrohir strode to the center of the abandoned campsite. Scattered next to the dead ashes of the mercenary’s forsaken fireplace were bags of belongings, the necessities of travel strewn around the clearing in the same careless disarray with which the mercenaries seemed to have treated all that they encountered, whether objects like those that Elrohir now rifled through or living beings that they had only treated as objects. _Surely one of these mercenaries has a flask of water,_ Elrohir complained, emptying a satchel quickly by turning it upside down, its contents showering out in a clatter of beaten tin cookware.

“Why are you so certain that Legolas will return?”

He paused in his haphazard search, his hands stilling as guilt weighed upon him – he was not sure his twin would be happy to hear how he had convinced the Silvan to battle his grief. Seizing a flask, the Noldo shook it, relieved to hear the splash of water within the large bladder. Elrohir walked back to his youngest brother, settling between his two siblings on the ground so that he could reach them both. While dribbling water between the Ranger’s lips, just enough to wet the human's mouth, he explained, “I told Legolas that he had to lead us through Mirkwood, that I needed his help to protect you, Aragorn, and Tirn.”

Elladan shook his head in confusion. “I thought you could not control the visions, muindor. But you say you have not only seen what the Prince saw, but also spoke to him.”

“The revelations have become stronger. I could feel his despair, the agony of his wounds, and his solace at seeing Ament’s death. I could perceive what Legolas saw much clearer than the first time, when Legolas was accosted by Ament’s brother.” Shuddering at the remembrance, Elrohir tried to hide his reaction by shaking his head brusquely; he offered the bladder of water to Elladan and helped his twin drink.

When he had his fill of the tepid water, Elladan let his brother lie his head back on the wadded cloak under his head, and then brought his arm to lay over his eyes to block from them the noon sun. “You spoke to Legolas; what else did you tell him?”

Elrohir shook the water flask again, noting immediately that the liquid within would not last them much longer. Merely sipping from the bladder, Elrohir thought, _We will need to find a stream, or travel back to the river. Perhaps Legolas will be able to tell us the nearest source of water._

Guilty to have added to the Wood-Elf’s burden with yet another responsibility, Elrohir absently brushed the leaves, twigs, and dirt from Aragorn’s tattered clothing as he admitted with a heavy sigh, “I could not help him, not now as I could not when he was being despoilt by the mercenary. I have only shamed him into coming back to us because I could not watch him die. I told him it was his duty to see us safely to Eryn Galen.”

“But you have helped him, Elrohir, by giving him a reason to persist,” the elder Elf advised. “He would have already given in to grief had it not been for his desire to make certain that Eryn Galen and his father were safe.”

Despite his twin’s attempt to assuage his guilt, Elrohir concluded, “I have only prolonged his death, then.” Elladan frowned at his twin, ready to argue, but he stopped, his eyes growing wide and his brow knitted in concentration – and then, Elrohir heard it, too.

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Walking back through the forest was traumatic for the Prince: without the fleeing mercenary to guide his actions and bereft of the wrath that had sustained his interest in living, Legolas felt lost amidst the hazy, indistinct sea of trees. Barely adrift, the Wood-Elf stumbled blindly forward, trying vainly to discern his surroundings, to find his way back to his ailing friends, but his panic at being lost overwhelmed him and his inattention caused him to fall. He could find no strength with which to rise. His chest rattled with his rasping sighs and moans of pain; the sound reminded the Wood-Elf of the whispering of the leaves above him, and he concentrated on the forest, willing to remain amongst the trees, amongst his friends, and in the light, if only for a little while longer. _They are alive,_ he thought, _and I must help them._ He was elated to hear Elrohir say that Strider and Elladan would be well; his desire to aid them became the only incentive to his continued efforts to find the campsite.

He pulled himself to his knees, using the trunk of the tree beside him for support. The familiar song of the oak tree comforted the Wood-Elf. An impromptu tune spilled from his lips, each utterance sending forth another fine spray of the blood that had collected in his mouth from his incessant coughing, and each toneless measure a bastion against the waves of grief that still threatened him. _Not yet,_ he told himself, _I must be a Prince now._ His song of inane syllables was nothing more than what his failing lungs could manage to expel of his thoughts. He could still hear the soft rush of water lapping against the shores and his mother was still there, laughing at his childish antics as he played in the water as an Elfling; he sang to resist the lull of this soothing image and the cold death it would bring.

Blackened and blurred, the Prince’s vision rippled with each flatfooted step he took until his gait faltered, and he stood still in pleasant surprise. Legolas was not aware of the horrific sight he made for the two, shocked Noldor across clearing; he did not even see them. Instead, the Wood-Elf was fascinated by the brightness of the discolored sky above, for it broke through the dark, immaterial shadows he had stumbled through thus far; it lit his body, warming him, as it lit his face with an appreciative smile. _For too long I have been in the dark,_ he told himself, thinking of his insentience at being poisoned by the mercenaries, of almost drowning in the icy depths of the Anduin, of his time spent trapped in the tunnel, and of his harrowing journey back through the Mirkwood Forest.

“Legolas?”

The Wood-Elf started, his hand nearly losing his grip of Elrohir’s sword: before him walked the Noldo whose sword he held.

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He could not crane his neck to see what Elrohir saw, but Elladan could feel his twin’s conflicting emotions of relief and worry, and he strained to rise, knowing Elrohir would clobber him if he noticed. Finally managing to sit up, the Noldo nearly fell back when nausea and dizziness threatened to rid him of the water he had only just imbibed. _Eru’s ass,_ he protested, quickly placing his hands on the ground on either side of his hips in a vain attempt to stop the forest from spinning. It didn’t work: the Noldo instead placed his hands on his head, sure that his brain was trying to escape his skull. When he heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath, the elder twin wrenched his eyes open, willing them to focus on the sight of the two Elves to his side.

“It is Elrohir,” his twin soothed to the filthy, bloody, golden warrior, moving closer to the preoccupied Silvan with caution. Legolas only stared at Elrohir, muttering softly to himself.

_I cannot believe he is standing,_ Elladan thought, watching the Wood-Elf swaying on his feet.

“Hand me your sword, Legolas.”

Without argument, the seemingly unresponsive Prince handed Elrohir the blade he held in hand, his movement deliberate and sedulous, considering the Wood-Elf’s condition. Starting from the Prince’s blood spattered chin and mouth, the archer’s battered, emaciated body was covered in blood, the relatively clean leggings for which he had traded with Tirn were now smirched with mud and filth, most of it tinted red with the blood that ran freely from the young Elda’s bare, lacerated chest and newly sliced bicep. Most disconcerting, however, was Legolas’ softly sung, distracted, dissonant melody.

Elrohir tried to take the archer by the forearm but the Prince pulled away, his singing ending for him to ask in a hoarse voice, “Are they well, Elrohir?”

“Come, Legolas, and see,” Elrohir prompted, reaching out to take the Wood-Elf’s arm again, but Legolas stepped backwards, and the Noldo lowered his hand. Not offended by the Silvan’s avoidance of him, Elrohir merely began walking away from the archer, keeping his gaze on the Prince and at ready to catch the archer should he fall. He let Legolas follow him the short distance to where Elladan watched, concentrating on remaining upright. “Elladan is awake, and – Elladan! Lay back down,” Elrohir demanded, rushing to push the struggling Noldo back to the ground.

“I am fine, Elrohir, leave me be,” Elladan griped, shoving his twin’s hands away from him and reclining slowly back to the earth of his own volition.

Elrohir scowled at his brother but did not argue further; instead, the Noldo turned to the Wood-Elf, asking, “Please, sit, Legolas. Let me see to your wounds.”

Elrohir reached out to aid the Prince in sitting but stopped himself: Legolas collapsed gracelessly to the grass onto his injured knees when he tried to sit, for his abused legs would not hold him. _He is in worse shape than when last I saw him,_ Elladan noted, taking in the new injuries that the Silvan had sustained from whatever had occurred after Elladan had been thrown across the clearing.

His voice gruff and broken, the Prince tried to speak and then settled into sitting cross-legged beside the Ranger, this time managing to ask, “How is Strider?”

“He will be fine, Legolas, he is merely sleeping. I’ve no doubt he is exhausted.” Elrohir grabbed his satchel of herbs and bandages then retrieved the flask of water from the ground. He knelt before the coughing Prince, sitting back on his feet as he examined the wounded Silvan and tried to determine where to start.

_At least one of his ribs is broken,_ Elladan decided. Each breath Legolas took sounded like his last. Across his chest lay a thick laceration, the flesh scored deeply, rent into an angry gash, and on his chest, over his heart, was a shallow gouge dripping red fluid. The Wood-Elf’s upper arm also bled, and on his back and legs were new superficial cuts.

Elrohir poured water onto a fresh rag of linen and began to wash clean the leaves and dirt from Legolas’ torso; however, the Wood-Elf recoiled by arching away from Elrohir. He grabbed the cloth from the Noldo’s hand and began to swipe at the bloodied mess of his chest for himself. From his vantage point on the ground, his head elevated slightly by Elrohir’s cloak, Elladan observed his brother become flustered at the Prince’s careless cleaning of his wounds. Although it must have pained the Prince, Legolas did not seem to notice as his cloth abraded the injured flesh of his chest. _If he will not let us treat these wounds, he will never let his tend those that Ament’s brother inflicted._

Legolas inquired about his sentry, “What of Tirn, how is he?”

“I do not know, Legolas,” Elrohir disclosed. “He is in the tunnel with Jalian. When last I saw him he still lived.”

The Prince frowned; he hurried in his washing with the now bloody rag, the grime and claret on his chest still covering his thinned white flesh despite his efforts at cleaning it. “I will go get him.”

“No,” Elladan soothed, trying to be of some use to his disconcerted twin. He could sense Elrohir’s anxiety for the Wood-Elf, could feel his guilt at being unable to stop the archer’s torture at the hands of the humans, and knew that his overstressed twin would not be capable of maintaining his patience for long. When their mother had almost died of grief, Elrohir had almost joined her, for his empathetic inclinations had made their Naneth’s despair Elrohir’s despair, too, and the younger twin was still scarred from watching her sail. He breathed deeply, hoping to stifle the sickening urge to faint as he rose from the grass. “Elrohir will go get him.”

Frowning with annoyance at his eldest brother’s exertion to sit, the younger twin seized the rag from Legolas’ hands, no longer able to watch the Prince damage himself further. “I cannot leave the two of you here alone.”

“Then I will go get him,” the Wood-Elf offered again. “I cannot leave him in the tunnel alone.”

“He is not alone, Legolas.” Elrohir opened a tin of salve and dipped the corner of a strip of bandaging into the substance. “Jalian is with him. We can collect them both after I am sure that you are well.”

Once more, the Prince evaded Elrohir’s attempts to help him but this time he did so by trying to rise. “I do not want Tirn left alone with the human.”

“Elrohir, go get Tirn and Jalian. It will be better off should we all remain together.” Elladan glared at his twin, reminded by Legolas' statement that he didn’t trust the mercenary with which the grievously injured sentry had been left alone.

_The goblet,_ he thought, realizing that the mercenary was below with the Elven blood needed to make the object work, should it be capable of working again.

The Wood-Elf must have had the same thought, for he threw off Elrohir’s staying hand to try rising again. He asked, “Where is the goblet?”

  
  



	32. Chapter 32

Elrohir tried to remain calm: he could not allow his twin and the Prince to panic, although his own heart had leapt into his throat, blocking the soothing lie he tried to tell the two anxious Elves before him. “The goblet is below,” he admitted, pushing firmly the Silvan’s shoulder so that Legolas sat in the soft grass beside Aragorn once again. He knew that Elladan did not trust the mercenary, and Legolas had no reason to trust Jalian, but Elrohir tried to placate the two regardless. “The goblet can cast no more spells.”

“Does Jalian know this?” As simple a question as Legolas asked, Elrohir still could barely stifle the sudden desire to sprint to the underground lair where the sentry and mercenary waited.

_Jalian would not have done this,_ the Noldo thought, twisting his hands together unconsciously as he tried to think of a way to convince them and himself that the mercenary would not harm the sentry.

Elladan, who Elrohir noticed with annoyance was not only sitting but also now trying to stand, had taken Elrohir’s sword in hand. “We cannot leave him below. Come, Elrohir.”

“I should come with you,” the Prince argued, making as though to rise from the ground; Elrohir pushed the Elf gently back into sitting. He was growing very tired of being the only Elf in the clearing with any common sense.

“No, muindor,” the younger twin implored his brother, willing him to understand. _We cannot leave Aragorn above ground alone, and Legolas is too injured to go._ “You are injured,” he told Elladan, however, rather than the more seriously injured Legolas. Turning to the Wood-Elf, the younger Noldo asked of him, hoping Legolas would not realize his ploy, “I cannot leave Estel and Elladan alone. You must protect them.”

Having only made it to his knees, Elladan sat back on his heels heavily and handed his brother’s sword to him. He said nothing but nodded, and Elrohir knew that his twin had understood his intent. “Be careful,” Elladan warned his younger brother. “And come back,” the elder Elf said quietly.

Guilty exigency overcame him, and he did not pause to reply to Elladan as he stalked across the clearing, not noticing that the forest was no longer silent and the sun-enamored trees and plants vied for Anor's golden attention. Although he wanted nothing more than to run to the decimated trees, to get to Tirn and the goblet, he forced away the fear-inspiring image of what he may find below ground. _I should not have left him alone,_ Elrohir thought, careful to keep his pace slow when the last few feet between him and the hacked trees seemed to take too long to navigate. Jalian was not trustworthy, Elrohir knew. The mercenary had aided them, however, and the Noldo’s earlier conversation with the scarred human had softened Elrohir’s instant hatred for any who would abet the defilement of a fellow Elf. He crept between the unnatural hollow of the trees.

Now that he was out of sight of his brothers and the Prince, Elrohir wasted no time in crawling into the tree-encircled opening, not feeling in his fear the thick splinters of wood under his unprotected hands as he scrambled forward. _If Jalian has hurt Tirn, I will personally strap him to the nearest Warg._ He leapt down the short ladder, not bothering to use a single rung as he flung himself headfirst to the tunnel’s floor. When his hands hit the loose soil and rock surface, his feet were already pushing his body forward, sprinting towards the Wood-Elf, the mercenary, and the accursed goblet.

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He could listen to the Silvan no longer. “Legolas,” the Noldo pled, “let me see to your wounds.” Elladan could hear the rails of the archer’s breathing, and he feared that one of the Prince’s ribs had punctured a lung. The pink, frothy blood the Wood-Elf coughed up frightened the Noldo.

Legolas shook his head, his gaze on the trees at the opposite end of the clearing where Elrohir had only just entered. “I am fine,” the archer lied, turning his head slowly to Elladan. The Wood-Elf merely glanced at the Noldo before his dulled blue eyes settled on the Ranger beside him. Picking one hand up carefully from the ground, the Prince gently encircled Aragorn’s forearm with his hand, placing the Ranger’s limb on the human’s chest, where Elven hand and human arm moved with each slight rise and fall of Estel’s torso.

Elladan scooted closer to the Silvan, grimacing at the pain it caused his broken collarbone and the dizzy queasiness that welled within him at the movement: he was determined to help Legolas. _We need to get him to Mirkwood, to his father, and with his people._

As fearful as he was of what was happening with his twin and the mercenary below, the Noldo tried to humor the Prince, saying, “If Aragorn were not sleeping, he would no doubt be saying he is fine, also. I see he has met his match in obstinacy.”

For a moment, the Wood-Elf only stared at him in confusion, but the archer then smiled what would have been a brilliant smile, had his lips not been split, his face bruised, and much of his body still covered in blood. “Aragorn?” The Prince laughed cheerfully, albeit gruffly, and smiled down at the Ranger. “Your brother has many names.”

The Noldo watched the Prince check the Ranger’s bandages, seeing the fondness the Silvan felt for his youngest brother. There was so much that he didn’t know about what had occurred to Estel and Legolas, and now was not the time to ask, but Elladan could perceive that even after the trials he had been through, the Prince trusted the human.

“He will have many more names before his time on Arda is over,” the Noldo replied, pulling Elrohir’s satchel to him. Finding another cloth with which to wash the Wood-Elf’s wounds, Elladan picked up the forgotten flask of water, first offering it to the archer.

While Legolas drank from the flask, the Noldo sorted through his brother’s collection of herbs, searching for something to ease the Silvan’s painful coughing. Finding a few herbs that would not need steeping, he tried to hand them to the Prince, who shook his head when he saw them, explaining, “I have had them before: they will put me to sleep.” Elladan sighed, prepared to argue with the Wood-Elf, but Legolas conceded. “I will take them when I am not needed.”

_Damn it to Mordor,_ the elder twin thought. _The only thing keeping Legolas alive is Elrohir’s telling him that we require his assistance. When he does not need these herbs, it will be too late for them to aid him._

He took the flask from Legolas and wetted the cloth he had taken from Elrohir’s satchel. The Wood-Elf glared at this action dubiously but Elladan did not relent in his effort to aid the Prince, and grabbed the archer’s arm; Legolas pulled away summarily. Wincing at the Prince’s dormant fear, which was obvious in the younger Elf’s blanched and terrified face, Elladan merely pulled the archer to him, wiping clean the new gash the Silvan had sustained on his upper arm. Acting as though he did not notice the Wood-Elf’s distress, the Noldo tended the wound with disinterested efficiency, hoping Legolas would calm. He had seen his father use the same technique on several Elves unfortunate to have been wounded more deeply that just their bodies, one of whom was his mother.

The ploy worked: the Prince’s muscles relaxed under Elladan’s attentions, but the archer’s dirty, flaxen head bobbed slowly and Legolas’ hand, the Noldo noticed, was tightening around Aragorn’s wrist. _Son of an Orc._ Elladan panicked. The Wood-Elf’s eyes were glazing over and his breathing had become too low.

“Legolas,” he exclaimed softly, yanking the Prince’s arm slightly to rouse the drifting Elf. Blinking once, Legolas looked at Elladan, his eyes focusing for a brief moment on the Noldo before they wandered back to the Ranger on the ground. “Legolas,” Elladan said more quietly than before. “I need your help.”

His demeanor becoming more aware at once, Legolas watched Elladan wind a bandage around his upper arm. “What do you need, Elladan?”

“The lacerations on Estel’s throat,” the twin thought aloud quickly, tying off the bandage and grabbing Elrohir’s satchel again. “I need you to cover them with this,” he said, handing the eager Prince a tin of salve. “It will keep out infection.” Legolas nodded and moved closer to the Ranger, finally releasing his hold of the man’s arm. His eyes watering when he jarred his collarbone, Elladan moved behind the Prince, dragging Elrohir’s satchel with him. He would need plenty of supplies.

The archer squirmed away at Elladan’s prodding of the younger Elf’s ribs: though several of the Prince’s ribs were cracked, none were displaced enough to be puncturing the Silvan’s lungs. _The blood he coughs must come from the trauma to his throat,_ the Noldo decided, his thoughts turning to the horrible sight of the younger Elf being throttled in the passageway by the blond human, and the violent efficiency with which Tirn had slain the mercenary. Elladan wiped clean the side of the Prince’s chest, stopping only to point out a missed cut on the Ranger’s neck that the Wood-Elf had not yet lathered in the ointment. _I hope he will be well,_ Elladan thought of Tirn. _I hope we will all be well._

When done, Legolas capped the ointment. He dodged Elladan’s attempts to wash clean the long slash over his chest only once before the Noldo grabbed his arms. The Wood-Elf became still and his eyes became wide. “Legolas,” Elladan reasoned, “if you do not let me see to your injuries, then you will not be healthy to help Aragorn.” Sickened at his manipulation of the Prince, the Noldo added, shamed at the apparent contrition in the overcome Silvan’s demeanor, “Estel’s bandages need to be checked.”

_Ilúvatar forgive me,_ the elder twin thought, hoping that Elrohir’s plan of keeping Legolas alive by reminding him of his duties would not truly end up merely prolonging the Wood-Elf’s death: Elladan did not think he could handle the guilt of having ordered about the grieving Prince for the remainder of his days on Arda. Now sympathetic as to why Elrohir had been guilt-ridden when telling him of how he had obtained the Prince’s acquiescence into returning to the clearing, Elladan pledged to himself, _Legolas will survive._ He began to cleanse the Wood-Elf’s wounds tentatively. _He has survived this long. He will survive._

Without complaint, the Wood-Elf began to check the Ranger’s wounds systematically, and though he tensed at the first swipe of Elladan’s cloth across the laceration on his bare chest, he did not flee the Noldo’s aid. He tended the worst of the Prince’s lacerations first, intent on aiding Legolas as much as he could before the Wood-Elf would allow no more. Dabbing at the odd indention in the Silvan’s chest with a salve, Elladan soothed the Wood-Elf’s wounds, distracting the Prince from his actions by having Legolas tend the Ranger in turn, and wishing his twin would return swiftly.

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Elrohir raced around the tunnel’s bend, kicking rocks and dirt into the walls, where they beat the wooden timbers in a hurried tempo that matched the Noldo’s urgent flight. No sooner had he rounded the corner than Jalian yelped in surprise, standing from his seat beside Tirn to back several feet away from the advancing Noldo. Ceasing his sprint so that he stood between the scarred human and the sentry, Elrohir surveyed the tunnel. The goblet lay as it had; in their haste to find Ament, it had been forgotten against the stone slab they had pulled from atop Tirn. The sentry was as pale and lifeless as before, although Elrohir noted that the Wood-Elf’s chest still moved.

“Egad,” the mercenary whispered feverishly, his eyes wide in the dark of the tunnel. “You scared me, mate. Thought you was Ament.”

Elrohir looked down at the goblet again, disbelieving that it had not been used again, and realizing as he did so that halfway in his flight down the tunnel he had drawn his sword from its scabbard. He stared at the mercenary, not certain whether to believe that Jalian had not hurt Tirn, and the sentry and goblet were undisturbed in his absence; his drawn sword and intense scrutiny must have frightened the human.

Jalian stepped back again, asking bluntly, “You plannin’ to kill me now?”

Letting his sword slide back into its sheath, Elrohir shook his head dumbly, stunned that the mercenary thought he would kill him in cold blood. “Ament is dead,” he said, “and the others are safe above.”

Jalian nodded, eyeing the Noldo suspiciously. “So it is all over then?”

“It is.”

Rubbing his hands over his scarred head, the mercenary knocked the ever-present soil from the black tufts of hair growing on his marred scalp. “What about Doran? Is he dead, too?”

Elrohir knelt beside Tirn, feeling the sentry’s heartbeat. Though the Wood-Elf’s pulse was steady, it was weak, and the sentry had regained no color in his fair features. “I do not know of whom you speak,” the younger twin explained, looking around him for something that would aid him in carrying the sentry out of the tunnel. “If you mean the tall blond human, then yes, he is dead.”

It seemed that the mercenary had mixed emotions about the death of all of his companions. He grew silent, staring down the dark tunnel without moving, though the Noldo sensed no anger or violence from him. Elrohir could not fault the mercenary for his grief; however, to the Noldo, the deaths of the mercenaries were no loss at all, except perhaps for Meika's demise, who Jalian claimed had helped Estel and Legolas. Elrohir felt no remorse about their deaths, no matter how horrible. Therefore, the twin left Jalian to his thoughts, having no comfort to give him, and instead prepared to move Tirn by bracing the Elf’s neck the best he could.

“Here,” came the voice of the human behind him. Turning to see what the man wanted, Elrohir gave the mercenary and the outstretched hand holding a long, dirty cloak a questioning look. “For a litter,” the man explained. “To carry ‘im outside.”

“Thank you.” Elrohir accepted the cloak, untied the knot of the string that bound the hood, and spread it out on the ground. Lifting the sentry carefully, the Noldo placed him on the cloak with Jalian’s help, wrapping the sides of it over the Wood-Elf and leaving enough room for him to grasp the cloth at the sentry’s head. After strapping the goblet to his waist, Elrohir grabbed the cloth: the bottom hem did not extend far beyond the sentry’s legs, but it was enough for Jalian to hold onto as they slowly walked through the tunnel.

Altogether, Elrohir was pleased with the mercenary’s idea. _I wonder if he has any experience as a healer,_ the Noldo thought, unable to cease smiling now that he knew Tirn and the goblet were safe.

He wanted to keep the sentry’s body as stable as possible, as he did not want Tirn’s neck wound aggravated, nor have to reset the Wood-Elf’s broken thigh. When they came to the ladder, Elrohir climbed ahead, holding the sentry’s upper body as he backed up the ladder, while Jalian supported the majority of Tirn’s weight. He backed rear end first out of the tunnel, dragging Tirn with him by dragging Jalian’s coat. Keeping the sentry on the cloak was proving difficult, but the mercenary would replace the Wood-Elf’s stray arms each time they fell from the protection of the long cloth, and he held still the makeshift splint that Elladan had placed on the sentry’s broken thigh earlier that day.

Free of the grotto and finally standing, Elrohir looked to his twin and the Prince just in time to catch Elladan preparing to rise, no doubt to aid them with Tirn. “We will manage,” Elrohir told his twin, relieved laughter spilling from him despite his cross tone, when he saw that Elladan had been able to convince Legolas to let him tend to him, and that the Wood-Elf was tending the still unconscious Ranger.

He chuckled again, though he sobered slightly as he looked down at Tirn’s ashen face. _I have enough patients to begin my own healing house,_ he complained, and then smiled at his thoughts: he was glad he had patients to tend, rather than bodies to bury. Grabbing the cloak, he and Jalian moved the sentry to where his two brothers and Legolas, who was anxious to see his sentry, were waiting.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had the odd feeling that he should have been dead. He had seen the dagger protruding from his chest, and he knew that it should have killed him; however, he also knew that Elrohir would not be laughing if he were dead. Moreover, he should not be able to hear their laughter if dead. _There is nothing for it,_ the Ranger complained sullenly, holding his aching body very still as his consciousness finally emerged from his comforting slumber, _I am alive._

Aragorn tried to pay attention to the twins’ conversation. He could recall vaguely a reason for urgency, for needing to wake, to rise – whatever reason that was, the Ranger could not remember, and so he dozed, letting his brothers’ voices lull him back to sleep. He had nearly evaded consciousness when a hoarse cough beside him roused his thinking, and his memory of the owner of said cough. _Legolas._ The sound had been close, and the human knew the Wood-Elf sat beside him. The Ranger made several frustrating attempts to open his eyes, but the pull of sleep kept them closed, and so he just listened.

“How is Tirn?”

“The same,” Elrohir told Legolas. “Just stay still, Elladan,” an obviously exasperated Elrohir ranted. “We can lay Tirn here.” After a moment of silence, the elder twin must have moved again and Legolas must have tried, also, because Elrohir complained, “Stay where you are, both of you!”

“I am only trying to help you, brother.” Aragorn heard the sound of someone settling with a grunt of pain on the ground beside him, and then Elladan’s voice became louder, although his words were softly spoken. “Legolas,” Elladan asked, “will you please wrap Aragorn’s wrists?”

One by one, the raw wounds on his wrists, gifts from Ament’s ceaseless yanking of the Ranger’s rope leash, were washed and wrapped, the untrained but kind touch of the Wood-Elf soothing to the Ranger.

He stopped listening to the activities in the clearing: Legolas was alive, for now, as was Tirn, apparently. Both Elladan and Elrohir were well, and Melfren, Aragorn decided, must be dead, else none of them would be alive. For the first time since Fulton, six days ago, the human felt free. Reflecting on the past six days and the thin line he had walked to keep Legolas alive and the mercenaries mostly unaware of his ambition to thwart their plans, he thought, _I am no longer responsible for anyone’s life._

The distinct tone of Elladan’s voice roused the Ranger, for the twin was using the same tone that had been used on him each time he had been resistant to the twins’ efforts to treat his wounds. “Please,” Elladan chided the Wood-Elf, nearly begging, “Your broken ribs need to be bound. It will make it easier to cough, Legolas.”

“I do not wish to cough,” the Silvan said grimly. Even from where he laid on the ground, the Ranger could hear the uneven rails of the archer’s breathing.

“You need to cough,” Elladan replied. “I know it hurts, Legolas, but you must keep your lungs clear.” The Wood-Elf must have consented, because the end of the linen Elladan wound around the archer’s chest would occasionally brush against Aragorn’s arm.

It was then that he noticed the warmth of the sun on his bare skin, and not willing to open his eyes to see, merely surmised from his bared chest, _I am sure Elladan and Elrohir took great pleasure in ruining my leather overcoat._

“There,” the elder twin said, breaking the Ranger’s muddled reverie. “I do not think your ribs have punctured your lungs, but we will not tempt fate. Take deep breaths,” he advised the Silvan, explaining, “to cough up the blood in your lungs.”

“More likely I will cough up mud. I inhaled more dirt than air in the tunnel,” Legolas said.

A sudden pressure against his hip nearly surprised the Ranger into opening his eyes, but he did not want to wake fully. He did not want to be awake because it meant he would need to explain to his brothers, and then later King Thranduil and his Ada, that the Prince’s grieving, fading soul was entirely his fault. He had kept the archer against his will, which had resulted in the Prince being brutalized and tormented, and Legolas had repaid him by saving his life – more than once. Even when the Silvan had been determined to stay, Aragorn felt he should have forced the Prince into leaving. Tirn had suffered, too, and would likely die because of Aragorn’s hastily made decisions.

_I am just as guilty as Ament,_ the Ranger thought.

“Legolas,” Elladan admonished with unbridled, worried exasperation; the human heard his eldest brother’s anguish clearly, knowing the reasons behind it. “Let me check your thigh wound.”

The pressure against the Ranger’s hip increased, and Estel let his eyes slide open. Against him sat the Prince, who shirked Elladan’s prodding and moved into Aragorn to avoid the elder Elf from touching him. _He is frightened._ Aragorn closed his eyes quickly lest they see he was awake. _If he will not even allow other Elves to help him, then what odds does Legolas have for any recuperation?_

Sighing deeply at the thought, he caught the attention of the Prince. The Wood-Elf grabbed the man’s forearm, finally bringing Estel from his desired solitude. Peering down at him, the Prince smiled while the Ranger frowned. “He is dead,” Legolas asserted, affirming the human’s assumption that neither Ament nor Melfren would bother them anymore. “All will be well, Strider.”

A dark-haired shadow stood over him, and another, similar one joined beside him, followed shortly by a grinning mercenary. The twins’ looked down upon him, smiling at seeing him awake, while Jalian simply looked happy to be alive. They spoke to him but he could not understand them, as they spoke in tandem, and his tired mind could not separate their voices. Aragorn returned their joy, however, for his last vision of Elladan, bent and battered, was relieved from his mind. Elrohir, it seemed, had no injuries, though his features were drawn with sharing his brother’s pain and the burden of their collective welfare.

_All will be well,_ the Ranger repeated to himself, not yet able to speak but wanting to begin his apologies to the fading Silvan smiling down at him and the twins who would despise him for his culpability in the Prince’s ordeal. Despite what the Wood-Elf said, the heavy smell of blood and the unrestrained aura of grief around Aragorn portended to him that not all would be well.

  
  


 


	33. Chapter 33

Since he had awoken, the Ranger had remained quiet, preferring to watch the bustle of the camp; it was truly his only option, since he was not allowed to participate. With his chest emitting a steady, throbbing ache from the deep, charred puncture wound located thereon, and his stomach muscles twitching with the unrelievable tightness that the similar burn there created, Aragorn did not wish to rise just yet. The twins, per usual, were arguing, and the human listened to their bickering with unconcealed joy. _It is good to hear them,_ he thought happily, enjoying the noisome peace while it lasted, and watching the Noldor Lords behaving like Elflings rather than the elder Elves they were.

It was not often that Elrohir bested his twin in an argument, but this time, he would not relent. “Not a chance, Elladan. Jalian will stay with you while I gather our horses. We’ve need for more water and supplies immediately. I will be back within an hour. Stay here,” Elrohir commanded, offering little room for any of them to argue. It was difficult to contend with the young Noldo because few of them could move sufficiently to impede him, thus none of them tried.

“I will not be very much use to anyone if you will not even let me stand, Elrohir,” the elder twin protested. “I can go and you can remain. The others need you here.”

With a snip of the scissors the healer never traveled without, Elrohir had cut the gut he had been stitching through his twin’s skin. The long gash over Elladan’s forehead was not serious, looking much deeper than it had truly been, and so, luckily for the elder Noldo, few stitches had been required to close the wound. Pressing a cloth to the injury, which had begun to bleed anew, Elrohir twisted linen around his twin’s head to hold the scrap of cloth against Elladan’s forehead. “You are staying here, and do not let me find upon my return that you have moved.”

“Fine, muindor,” the eldest of Elrond’s sons grumbled, settling back with mendacious compliance. “But hurry.”

Aragorn caught the younger twin’s smile of surprised triumph. _Elrohir should not become accustomed to winning these battles, lest Elladan resort to winning them in ways that are more devious._ Usually, when the twins argued over some mere sibling squabbling, the winner was decided by who could pull the better prank; this time, the Ranger did not expect such irresponsibility from either twin. Everyone’s mood was lightened, his own included, but it would be temporary, for though they now rejoiced in the witch’s death, Ament’s concomitant demise, and their relative fortuity, Aragorn did not anticipate this good fortune to last.

He watched Elrohir sprint from the clearing, moving faster than most horses could as he took off gracefully through the thicket. It was already late afternoon; the younger Noldo would rush to collect the twins’ and sentry’s horses and supplies so as not to be caught in the forest alone at dark, and so as not to leave his brothers, the Prince, and the sentry alone for long. _I hope they have brought more blankets._ Pulling the tatters of his leather coat over him to keep in his febrile warmth, the human felt a tug at his wrist. Elladan had already stood against his brother’s orders and seated himself by the prone Ranger. He smiled apologetically at his human brother, handing Aragorn’s arm to Legolas to untie the bandages wrapped round the healer’s wrists yet again.

Four times over the course of the afternoon, the despondent Prince had changed the wrappings on a variety of Aragorn’s wounds, four times now the Ranger had sat patiently through the redundant procedure, and four times Elladan’s attempts to check the Silvan’s thigh wound had been avoided. It did not hurt his wrists that the Wood-Elf bound them again now, but even had it, Aragorn would have never told Legolas, or his brothers. The twins’ ploy had become apparent to the Ranger almost immediately, for he had discovered much the same about the Prince long before they: the Wood-Elf needed his sense of duty for helping others for his own survival, and so Estel permitted the Prince to tend him. They had tried to encourage the archer to help his sentry, and though he had washed clean the sentry’s wounds and fed his fellow Wood-Elf drops of water to wet his lips, Tirn’s lifeless state had distressed the Wood-Elf such that they had given up, moving the Silvan away from the ruined Elf and back closer to Aragorn. Thus, Legolas once more smeared salve over the Ranger’s scabbed and raw wrists.

_He will fade ere we ever reach Eryn Galen’s palace,_ the human thought, watching Legolas pull his leg under him and away from Elladan’s hands again.

The Noldo, utterly exasperated, turned his pleading gaze to Aragorn, hoping, it seemed, that the human could convince the Wood-Elf. After all he had allowed the Prince to suffer through it was beyond Aragorn to comprehend why Legolas would trust him, but trust him he did, and so Estel asked the immortal, “Will you let Elladan see that it is not infected?”

“It is fine. It does not pain me,” the Silvan rasped, twisting his legs away from the twin and folding them under him fully so that he sat on his heels, while never ceasing his attentions to the Ranger. Although he had allowed the elder Noldo to see to his much-injured torso, back, and arms while tending the Ranger, the Wood-Elf would not allow anyone to touch his legs.

“Please, Legolas. Let us be sure,” the Ranger pled, “it will only take Elladan a moment.”

Legolas stared at the human, gauging something in the Ranger’s gaze that Estel could not define, though he tried his best to appear encouraging to the Prince. The bottomless cobalt blue eyes searched the human’s, and then the Prince slowly nodded, stretching his leg out grudgingly and allowing the Noldo to touch him. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Elladan worked quickly, needing to cut the leggings over the young Elda’s thigh, as it was not at all feasible that Legolas would remove them for Elladan to see to the arrow wound. Pushing aside the bandaging to expose the injury, sewn shut and vividly red, the Noldo set about his toil.

Recognizing the stitching to be one of the twins by its precise interstices, the Ranger wondered, _One of the twins has seen to this wound before. Why now will he not let them near?_ The mark from Doran’s arrow was not infected, thankfully, and the elder twin smeared an unguent across it. _Without the adrenaline of battle or fear for his father and home, he is submitting to his grief more readily._

_He only trusts me because he has had none else to trust these horrible past few days,_ the Ranger thought with much guilt, watching the Wood-Elf carefully should Legolas become further distraught as a result of Elladan’s handling. When the Prince had finished wrapping Aragorn’s wrists, Elladan had not yet finished seeing to Legolas’ thigh, and so the Ranger distracted the Wood-Elf by making a show of reaching for the skin of water nearby. With a smile, the accommodating, stricken Prince grabbed it for him and helped the human to drink, emptying another of their few flasks. Unlike the twins, Aragorn felt no guilt for keeping the Silvan busy. _Whatever keeps him alive,_ Estel thought, relaxing against the grass once again when Elladan had finally finished his work and the diversion was no longer needed.

The Prince was not the only one for whom the Ranger fretted. Tirn lay motionless and pale across the way, though according to Elrohir, the sentry appeared to be breathing more deeply, and his pulse had steadied. None voiced their concern for the Wood-Elf’s health should he wake – that the Elf still lived despite his massive blood loss might prove to be worse than his death. Several times in Imladris’ house of healing Aragorn had seen both Elves and men upon whom the unfortunate circumstance of near exsanguination had befallen, and a few of those poor souls that had woken had never recovered, doomed to live infantile lives from the effects of the blood loss. By Lord Elrond’s account, the Ranger had learned that the lack of blood had damaged the beings' mental capacities. Aragorn did not know the sentry, but he hoped that the Wood-Elf would not wake if he were to live such a life – if one could call such a life living for what was once a vibrant and capable warrior. _At least he will die doing his duty._ Returning his concentration on the ailing Prince, he added to himself, _As would Legolas, though I would have neither of them die._

Across the clearing, Jalian was whispering to his horse, patting the animal as he stared into the shadowy forest, which was growing dark with the oncoming night. The mercenary had been helpful, much more than Estel would have expected of the man, and had not only seen that he, Legolas, and his brothers were comfortable, but was now also feeding the horses water from a tin pot. The mercenary glanced at the Prince on occasion with uncertainty, and it was not until the scarred human had finally frowned, releasing the rope that held a tied, rolled cloak to Doran’s horse, that the Ranger truly noted his unusual actions.

With the bundle in hand, the mercenary tread noisily to where the two Elves and Ranger sat, standing before Legolas with a long lump of cloak in hand. “Here,” he said, holding out the package.

The Prince made no move to accept the package, and in fact did not even seem to care that the scarred human stood before him; Elladan took the bundle, instead, asking, “What is it?”

Nodding towards the reticent and withdrawn Wood-Elf, Jalian explained, “The bow and arrows he was carrying, and his sword. Me and Meika brought 'em with us. Thought they'd be worth a coin or two, but Doran was plannin’ to keep ‘em. I guess Doran don’t need them anymore.”

At this, the Silvan, no longer ignoring the mercenary, grabbed the cloak from Elladan, unrolling the cloth to expose his weapons. Remembering how vulnerable he had felt while unarmed, the Ranger lay with a smile, seeing the delight with which the woodland warrior took out his well-crafted, burnished long sword. “Thank you, Jalian,” the Prince told the human gruffly, his sincere smile belying the curt and rough tone of his voice. “This sword was a gift from my father.”

The human turned away to walk around the clearing, picking up gear and baggage as he went, and intending to search through his fellow mercenaries’ supplies for more food, water, and herbs for their use. A pile of said supplies sat in the center of the clearing from where Elrohir had already started this task earlier. Food they had plenty of, for the mercenaries had brought dried meat, roasted nuts, and tack with them: water and herbs they were sorely lacking, the former more so than the latter, and the few flasks of water the mercenary and Noldo had accumulated from their search were not full and would not last them long.

_We will leave on the morrow,_ the human sighed, looking up at the noise of Jalian dumping out another satchel through which to sift. _I do not look forward to telling Thranduil that it is my fault his son is battling grief and his sentry dying._

The hours passed slowly, the shifting shadows and dwindling light the only marker of the passage of time in the clearing: the Silvan held his sword in hand by its hilt, his bow and quiver sitting nearby, while Elladan was helping Jalian to gather the last few bags from the horses, helping to dump them out to sort through them himself. Taking Meika’s baggage in hand, the mercenary cast a sorrowful smile to the Ranger, and sat down to sift through it. Aragorn turned his head from where he lay on the ground to observe the mercenary – Jalian would pull free an item, smile tearfully at whatever he had found, whether it was a tin cup or a scrap of cloth, before gently laying it out in the grass to form a row of the fallen mercenary’s possessions. Showing Meika’s belongings more courtesy than the other dead human’s effects, Jalian tossed whatever they might need onto the growing pile and then replaced each item they would not need carefully back into its bag, before placing the bag with his own.

_He will keep his friend’s things,_ Aragorn thought, seeing the mercenary grab another of Meika’s satchels.

None spoke during the long while they waited for Elrohir’s return, though Legolas had taken to humming under his breath, putting aside his knife though leaving it well within his reach. His body rocked slightly with each exhaled, off-key note, the tremulous swaying appearing to Aragorn much like a boat caught in the gentle currents of the Anduin, or a leaf caught in a zephyr. What might have normally been the Elda’s singing voice had become a hoarse and unmelodious tone; however, Estel was merely glad that the Wood-Elf felt like singing, and listened to the Prince’s unrecognizable melody, feeling in his relief and sorrow as if the discordant tune were the most beautiful song he had heard.

When the archer began to cough violently, Aragorn called out, “Is there more water, Jalian?”

The mercenary replaced the last of his companion’s possessions swiftly, and taking a flask up from the pile, brought it to the Ranger. Aragorn pointed towards the Prince and Jalian instead handed the flask to Legolas. “Thank you, Jalian,” the Silvan croaked out again, draining the nearly empty flask in one swallow.

“Let me give you something for the pain, Legolas,” the elder twin advised, tossing aside the satchel he held to pick up his own. “It is good that you cough, but I know your ribs must hurt you.”

“Your herbs will put me to sleep. I do not want them.”

The Prince’s unconcerned rebuttal caused the anxious Noldo to turn on Aragorn his fear-born need to remain occupied. Elladan worried for his twin, for them all, and like Elrohir, the twin could not sit still when there was much to be done. “We could all use sleep,” Elladan told them, kneeling beside the Ranger to check his bandages.

“Elrohir will return soon, brother,” he asserted, batting Elladan’s hands from him and realizing that it was fear for his twin, who was taking more time than it should have taken for him to retrieve the horses, that incited the elder Noldo’s activity. “Leave me be unless you plan to help me sit.” The Wood-Elf’s tending he would endure but his brother’s mothering was quickly growing annoying.

Without arguing, the elder Noldo expressed his displeasure with his human brother with a morose frown, and then relented, aiding the Ranger into sitting with his back resting against the tree behind him. It was the same tree against which Melfren had so casually thrown Elladan, the Ranger noted, and thought with bewilderment, as he was not yet acclimated to the idea, _It is over._ His vinegary and annoyed mood left him forthwith at the memory of Elladan’s lifeless form lying at the base of the oak: _I should be thankful the twins are here to annoy me. I should be thankful they came at all._ His determination to learn how the twins had found the Prince and he renewed, though he knew that his own story would need be told, too, in admitting to his brothers his blame in the situation. _They will ask for the story tonight,_ the Ranger thought, sure that the inquisitive twins would not refrain long from satisfying their curiosity.

“This is the last one, mate,” Jalian called from across the clearing, tossing Ramlin’s emptied satchel to the ground. In his hand, he held a bladder of water, and shaking it, declared, “We’ll need to go back to the river for water, or find someplace to get more soon.”

Under Elrohir’s tutelage, the mercenary’s beneficence had increased from the fearful compliance he had displayed in the tunnel to a genuine desire to help. Jalian had been following Elrohir’s instructions all afternoon in regards to mixing herbs, and from what Aragorn could see of Jalian measuring out and grinding willow bark in a mortar across the way, the mercenary was doing a fine job of it. _We will need him with us while traveling to Mirkwood._ Whether the others would wish the mercenary to accompany them or whether Jalian would agree was another matter. Looking at the butchered clearing around him, the hacked trees and the blood spattered grass, the broken arrow shafts, the tips of which had already been saved and stashed away, and Legolas struggling against Elladan’s attempts to tighten the wrappings over his broken ribs, Aragorn decided, _Jalian owes us this much, if nothing else. He owes Legolas this._

That the mercenary had not known of the full consequences of his actions did little to alleviate the Ranger’s fury towards the human, but with Ament and the witch dead, and the goblet useless, Aragorn could not sustain his anger. His thoughts meandering in his weary mind to the death of Melfren, the Ranger asked Elladan, sidetracking the Noldo’s attention unintentionally, and thereby allowing Legolas to scramble away from the healer, “How did the witch die?”

Elladan threw his hands up in the air, vexed at the Prince’s avoidance, and then grimaced as his aggravated action disturbed his broken collarbone. He moved gingerly to sit by the sentry, instead, who could not escape the worried Noldo’s ministrations, and straightened the splint around Tirn’s thigh. “Legolas killed him.”

“No,” the Wood-Elf affirmed quietly. “The spiders killed him.”

Wanting to ask more of the witch’s death, Estel was interrupted by the steady beat of fast moving horses resounding through the clearing, and moments later Elrohir burst into the glade, his horse at a full gallop with Tirn and Elladan's steeds not far behind. Leaping off the mount, he inspected each of his patients anxiously for changes in their health, his eyes wide as if he had not expected to find them still in the clearing upon his return.

“I am back,” he said to his quiet, subdued charges, pulling free his and the sentry’s baggage, and placing them before Jalian.

“We can see that, muindor,” came Elladan’s sardonic reply. “It certainly took you long enough. And you returned not a moment too soon,” the Noldo said without elucidation. Anor was falling behind the mountains in the distance to the left, turning the open space into a shadowy and dim campsite.

"Tirn's horse had wandered away," the younger twin explained, and then with mock affront, the Noldo exclaimed, “You have moved, muindor!” Elladan snorted, while Elrohir grinned at his twin’s irritation, winking at the Ranger and Prince ere turning to the scarred human grinding away with his borrowed mortar. “Jalian,” he impelled, “will you please help me find something for our dinner. My brother becomes very grumpy when he has not eaten.”

With Jalian’s aid, Elrohir prepared food for them: they sat in a rough circle, passing the flask of water after they had handed around the chunks of dried venison and some of the bread, slightly soggy from the previous rain, that Jalian had brought with him. The meal was meager but the Ranger was famished and ate the simple repast with relish. Sitting in downcast silence until the worst of their hunger was sated, Elrohir fetched another flask from their mound of unpacked provisions and sat back on the ground to say pointlessly, “Tomorrow we can leave for Eryn Galen.”

The Ranger, still encumbered with the responsibility of Legolas’ grief and the sentry’s imminent death, tried to espouse the same relieved sentiment as his Elven brother, saying, “It is over.”

“Perhaps, then,” the Noldo said, flipping a piece of venison into his mouth, “you could tell us what, in the name of the One, has happened?”

_And so the peace is ended._ From the tips of his toes to the very hairs on his head, the Ranger did not desire to hold this conversation.

  
  



	34. Chapter 34

Legolas shifted his seat on the ground, trying to find a position that would not irritate his wounds, but as wounded as he was, the attempt was ineffective, and he finally settled into the least excruciating arrangement he could find. Stretching his legs out before him, the archer moved his seat involuntarily backwards in the grass so that he sat closer to Strider, and then reclined against the tree trunk behind them. He was not aware of it, but the Wood-Elf had no desire to leave the Ranger’s side. He did not fear the twins or the disfigured human across the way, and with Ament dead and the goblet in the honorable hands of the Noldor, he found he had little to fear save for failing in his promise to see the others back to Eryn Galen. The young human’s presence comforted him, though, and so the much older and wiser creature scooted closer to the Ranger.

The tree behind him, an old oak tree whose roots were curled up around them, forming natural grooves in which they sat, also comforted the Silvan. He rubbed the rough bark of the oak lovingly, unthinkingly, communing with the friendly tree as he waited for the Ranger to speak. The lifesong of the forest, though tainted as it was, was drowned out by the single, thunderous aria of the tree behind him, and he took solace in its tender, albeit deafening melody. Blurred and etiolated, his vision had not improved, but he no longer felt submerged in the achromatic forest, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the grieving berceuse whelming the Wood-Elf’s consciousness was allowing the forest’s song back into his soul.

Sighing, the Ranger handed Legolas the nearly emptied bladder of water he had been passed. “Why do you not first tell us how you found us, brothers,” the human said, shirking telling the story of his and the Wood-Elf’s captivity.

_He does not wish to tell them,_ the astute Prince discerned, though he could not fathom why the Ranger would shun his worried, devoted brothers’ concern.

“Now that is truly a story, though not one as lengthy as yours,” Elladan exclaimed, digging through his twin’s pack and pulling out a tunic, which he handed to his younger twin. “Elrohir has had visions!”

The Noldo in question blushed slightly, standing and coming to where the Ranger and Prince sat. Unfurling the rolled tunic, Elrohir claimed, bending down to reach the archer, “They are hardly visions, muindor.”

“Do not be modest, Elrohir! You collapsed on the ground while we were on the Misty Mountains and then woke screaming that Legolas and Aragorn were in danger! And it was you that insisted that we find Aragorn to begin, long before your first vision.”

Elrohir explained, smiling at the Ranger and Prince as he began to help Legolas dress in the thick tunic, “I saw nothing, truly. I only felt that the both of you were together, and in trouble, though at first it was nothing more than a whim.” Glad to have his bare chest covered and for the warmth and simple pleasure of the soft, clean fabric, the Silvan smiled his thanks to Elrohir, who grinned back at him before settling back in his seat. With the bulky bandaging underneath, the fabric bulged out and could not have been buttoned properly, had not the Noldo’s tunic been too large for Legolas already.

“You may have seen nothing, brother, but your revelations are why we decided to cross the Misty Mountains at once, rather than wait. And it is well that we did, for we would not have met Tirn to find that the Prince was missing, and we may well have traveled on to Thranduil’s halls and not been here to assist,” the elder twin argued. He frowned, “Had we not dyed Glorfindel’s robes as a prank, we would never have fled Imladris in the first place.” The twins frowned at each other in tandem, looking to Legolas like Elladan was the vexed reflection of Elrohir, though the elder twin’s bruised face and bandaged arm evinced the two Noldor were, in fact, not mirror images – at least, not until Elladan healed.

_Elrohir's premonitions and abilities as a foreseer are new to him, then,_ the Prince mused, reminded of how twice Elrohir had come to aid him in his times of trouble. _It is good that he learned quickly how to use these gifts._

Tirn’s story could not be told in full, but Elladan related that which they knew, saying, “Tirn told us that King Thranduil despaired that no trace of Legolas could be found. The rain had washed away the tracks,” the twin told them, sparing Jalian, who sat shamefaced and quiet at the fringe of their irregular circle, a brief glare. The elder Noldo did not hide his detestation for the mercenary. “The King has sent only Tirn to find you, Legolas, believing that to send more would weaken Eryn Galen’s defenses unnecessarily.”

Legolas was not surprised and nodded at Elladan's statement: the Prince's father had done just as Legolas expected, as the archer would have him do, by placing the safety of Mirkwood before that of his son, Prince or no. His father’s despair, however, troubled the Silvan, but he ignored these thoughts, making himself listen to the remainder of the sentry’s story, as told by Elladan.

“We met Tirn at the river where the Forest Road crosses, and here we learned that you were missing.” Chuckling as he repositioned the sentry’s head after placing a few of the soft, empty satchels under it, Elladan told them, “Tirn had no leads as to where the mercenaries had taken you, Legolas, and so he flipped his medallion to decide which way to travel in his search.” More quietly, the Noldo added, “He said that fate may lead him where reason could not.”

“And it did,” a mystified Elrohir said, giving the comatose sentry an affectionate smile from where he sat across the way from Tirn’s inert body. “Just as our meeting him on our way to Eryn Galen was fate and just as your dying Glorfindel’s robes caused us to flee Rivendell, Elladan. It is well that we followed his medallion’s guidance, also.”

“Yes,” Elladan agreed, sharing his twin’s fondness for the sentry, who though they had known for only a short time, they both regarded with high esteem. “He told us on our journey down the river that he would not return to Eryn Galen without you, Legolas.”

His already grieved heart constricted once again at his sentry’s sacrifice to save him, a scared young Elfling lost in the forest. The Prince thought, _And he will not return to Eryn Galen without me, for one of us will surely die before then._ He would try, though, to live to return to Mirkwood with the Noldor and Ranger, for he wanted to get the sentry to Mirkwood as much as he wanted to go home himself. He was homesick. _I would see my father again._

“We happened across a grove of birch trees along the river, where we found evidence of your passing through. We have followed you into the forest since,” Elrohir explained.

“It is not as simple as that, muindor,” Elladan argued. “We came across the clearing. It was Tirn who wanted to search between the trees, and much to our surprise we found the tunnel hidden within them. Of all things to find in the Mirkwood forest!”

“Shortly thereafter,” Elrohir concluded, “we found you in the hallway, Legolas, beneath the blond mercenary in the hallway.”

Strider turned to Legolas quickly, remorse and concern coloring his face: the man thought the Prince had been abused again. _I nearly was,_ the Elf thought.

“He wanted only my death,” he told the Ranger quietly, lying to the human so that he would not need to explain Doran’s promises of violence towards him during his stint in the cell, and so not to add to the Ranger’s burden of guilt.

The human exhaled slowly, nodding once before he turned to hear Elrohir’s inquiry. “Perhaps now,” Elrohir said again, taking his mortar from Jalian and handing the mercenary leaves to tear for a poultice, ones that would be used for Elladan’s concussed head, he added, “you could tell _us_ what has happened, Estel. How came you to be with these mercenaries, brother?”

The Ranger twisted the bandaging around his forearm nervously. “I stopped in Fulton to buy supplies and spend the night. At the inn, I overheard Ament and Ramlin questioning a farmer about a goblet, one that they claimed would make mortals immortal. Although I could not remember Melfren’s fable, I thought to follow the brothers, to find out of what they spoke and how they intended to use it, as I missed hearing its location. However, I attracted their attention, and to get out of it, I told them my interest in them was only in that I desired that which they did, the destruction of the Elves.” Such an obvious mistruth did not need explanation for the twins or Legolas, all of whom knew that the Ranger desired no such thing.

But that the Ranger had lied caused Elrohir to ask with skepticism, “Your lie convinced them?”

“Truly, Aragorn,” Elladan added, smirking in his own disbelief, “you are horrible at lying.”

Smiling, the Ranger merely shrugged. “I must be better at lying than you give me credit for, dear brothers.” The human broke off another piece of dried meat, saying, “Ament allowed me to accompany them, although Ramlin wasn’t nearly as accommodating. We traveled the night through to a cave close to the river, where we met Doran.”

Elladan cut short the Ranger’s story, asking, “Doran was the blond mercenary?”

“Yes.” Strider nodded. The human exuded his reluctance to tell his story as easily as he exuded the sweat that poured from his feverish body. “Meika and Jalian brought Legolas to the cave. He appeared near death, and since none knew of healing, I offered my services to them, to keep their _cargo_ safe,” the human said derisively, no longer eating the meat he held in hand but only staring at it. “I did not know they intended to capture an Elf,” the Ranger said, already beseeching his brothers to understand his actions, “and I could not flee with Legolas without leaving the mercenaries to find the goblet unhindered.”

“You did not help Legolas?” His voice rising in indignation, Elladan straightened from where he reclined against in the grass, and inveighed, “You mean you willingly allowed the Prince to be held captive by the mercenaries? You were not held against your will this whole time?”

“I was in no condition to flee,” Legolas told the Noldo, confused by the twin’s anger. “Strider kept me alive.” He smiled at the Ranger, trying to bolster the human’s flagging cheerfulness. “It was complicated, was it not, Strider?”

“Yes, Legolas,” the guilty Ranger said, shaking his head in negation, however, and not at all aided by the Silvan’s attempt to lighten his burden of blame. “But Elladan is right. I acted foolishly by keeping you with the mercenaries.” He continued, “Legolas did not trust me, and gave me the false name of Tauron to hide his identity. I thought I could keep him safe until the goblet was found, and Ament and Ramlin’s plan ruined. We left the next morning, only three days ago, to search for the goblet.” The twins were growing irate, Legolas could see, and though he felt their blame was misplaced and wished to correct them, he let the Ranger finish his tale. “I did not think Legolas healthy enough to run. The luingalas they gave him was potent, and too much.”

“We stopped after crossing the Anduin.” Aragorn wrapped the dried venison he held back into its leaf wrapper and tucked it into his pocket, for his appetite was gone. “Legolas intended to flee,” the Ranger told his brothers and Jalian, who was listening raptly although he tried valiantly to act uninterested in hearing the hidden story behind the last several days’ events. While perhaps it was in reality Legolas’ story to tell, he did not mind that Strider spoke for him. “But Ramlin did not share his brother’s interest in keeping Legolas alive, and sought to destroy him.”

“And you did not try to stop him?” Elrohir ranted, ceasing grinding the herbs in his mortar to glare at his adopted brother.

“Of course I tried to stop him,” the Ranger hissed, crossing his arms across his wounded torso; he winced at the disturbance of his lacerated chest, and dropped his arms so that his fidgeting hands rested in his lap once again. He sighed, “But Ramlin throttled me into unconsciousness and would have broken my neck had not Legolas stopped him.”

“Without trusting you he saved your life,” Elladan grumbled, saying without conviction, “perhaps he should have let Ramlin break your fool neck.”

_Why do they blame him?_ the Silvan thought, coming to the Ranger’s defense again: “Strider aided me,” he refuted, saying, “He kept Ramlin from me... that time at least.” The twins flinched concurrently at his words but it did not stop Legolas from arguing, “Strider bid me to run, facing Ramlin alone and forsaking his intentions to find the goblet so that I could find safety. However, Ramlin ran after me through the copse of trees, screaming for Ament’s help. Ament caught me: I could not outrun his horse, and bound as I was, I could not fend him off when he subdued me. It was then that he learned my identity.” When the Ranger turned his awkward expression to the Prince, Legolas realized, _He blames himself as do the Noldor._

This part the Ranger had not been present for, and asked, “How did he come to know this, Legolas?”

Chewing his meal of bread thoroughly so as not to choke on it, the Prince shrugged his shoulders, unsure but saying, “By the insignia on the inside of my tunic, I believe. It became torn as we fought. Ament was staring at it. He must have recognized what it meant.”

Elrohir dumped the herbs he had ground into a tin pot, handing it to Jalian, who added his torn leaves and poured water in with the fusion to make a cold extract of the volatile mixture for use on Elladan on the morrow. They were quickly running out of prepared herbs and would soon run out of the healing plants altogether. “It was after you aided Legolas that they bound you as well?”

“No. Ament faulted Ramlin for Legolas’ escape attempt, and Ramlin, who had already expressed his intentions for Legolas, did not have the opportunity to contradict his brother’s belief.”

The twins stiffened at this news, Elrohir even more so as he asked, “Then you knew from the start what Ramlin intended for Legolas?”

Weary of being spoken of as though he did not sit with them, Legolas began to speak, but was stopped by a violent bout of coughing. A bladder of water was passed to him: he could not hold it, his vision grew dark and his chest heaved with his attempts to breathe, so the Ranger helped him drink. The effort of speaking was growing to be too much for him, he knew, but he imbibed deeply from the flask, emptying the scant supply of water ere he thanked the Ranger, and then told Elrohir, “Ament had made clear that Ramlin was not to touch me. Strider could not have known Ramlin would disobey.”

Not wishing to argue with the Silvan, Elrohir nodded with a frown, and Aragorn hastily continued, “Later that night Ament made even clearer that Ramlin was not to touch Legolas, for he instructed me to kill Ramlin should he try to accost the Prince again.” Recapping the empty water bladder, Strider tossed it across the clearing to the growing pile of empty flasks. They were running terribly short of water. “I told Ament that Elves can die from the torment Ramlin wished for Legolas,” the human explained softly, “which is when Ament told me he knew that Tauron was Legolas, and that his plans for Thranduil could now be exacted. He spoke of his father’s death and how it was Thranduil’s doing. He told me that Legolas was the means to his end of revenge, and that he would stop at nothing to obtain it.”

“Ament's line again. Damn his line,” Jalian interrupted in a whisper which was clearly meant not to be said aloud, for Jalian then startled as if surprised he had dared to speak. “Damn him,” he said, mixing the tin pot of steeping herbs delicately as Elrohir had taught him. Twisting his disfigured features into some semblance of a smile, the mercenary told Elrohir pointedly, “The line in the sand is what’s worth fighting for, right?”

The younger twin seemed to be the only one in attendance with any real clue of what the mercenary spoke and why Jalian had found it amusing, but it was Aragorn who responded, recalling his own conversation with Ament about this topic, and whispering, “Well said, Jalian.”

“Meika’s said it,” Jalian corrected, his smile fading and his attention returning to his task.

Confused by the latent meaning within the private conversation between his brothers and the mercenary he obviously loathed, a cross Elladan queried, “Why did Ament believe Thranduil to have killed his family? Why did he hate King Thranduil?”

Looking up from his pot of herbs again, the mercenary inserted, “Ament and Ramlin didn’t always hate the Elf-King. They’d not even seen many Elves until they helped me catch a few of ‘em one time for the slave market.” Suddenly aware that the majority of his audience was Elves, Jalian flushed, quickly changing the gist of his explanation, “No, Doran had told Ramlin about the goblet, and Ramlin told Ament a long time ago. Didn’t believe it, he didn’t, not Ament, not even when others claimed it was true. Never was one for superstition or tall tales, but when Ramlin said Doran had heard a farmer telling where it was, Ament wanted to find it.” The mercenary glanced at the goblet, which was still securely tied to Elrohir’s waist, the blood having been cleaned from it, though its taint was palpable if not seeable. “By then Ament was tired of petty thieving, and he wanted something more, which is when he got it in his head to take from Thranduil. Ament said the King had what he didn’t: a family, a house, food, riches, clothes…”

The Ranger expressed his own curiosity, momentarily turning the conversation away from his and Legolas’ story, to stall. “How did you come to know them, Jalian?”

“They’re from Laketown, like me and Meika.” Rubbing his hands briskly over his scarred head, the mercenary amended, “Haven’t lived there for many years, now, though. Been for hire for whatever I was needed for. Was there visiting Meika when Ament and Ramlin asked us to join them. Talked Meika into going, for the company.”

When the mercenary turned his head back down to hide the tears welling in his eyes, Aragorn began again to relate the events of the past few days again, sighing as he started, “Ament told me that night that Wood-Elves drove Orcs into the fields of his family’s farm. He told me that King Thranduil’s influence on Laketown had some part in his poverty, and in his becoming a thief.”

It was a poor excuse for their actions. _Crimes such as these have been performed on behalf of causes much less worthy,_ the Prince thought.

“Soon after our conversation, spiders attacked the camp, and Ament was injured by one. We waited a day for him to wake ere we left to find the goblet.”

“Then it was Ament whose wound you tended,” Elladan alleged bitterly, smirking in displeasure at his young, human brother. “We came across your labors at mixing an antidote. We taught you too well to care for the ill, I see.”

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably on the ground, his voice grim, as he countered, “I could not let him die. Ramlin would have been in charge, no doubt. Having discovered Legolas’ identity, I told Legolas what I knew of Ament’s plans, and he told me of what he knew. I begged him to flee while Ament was unconscious, thinking that Ramlin may not follow with his brother ill. But Legolas did not wish to run, desiring to keep his father and home from danger.” Looking to Legolas, the Ranger smiled warmly at him, saying, “And I would still hear why having Elladan and Elrohir as brothers makes me stout of heart.”

As he did the night he had told Strider this, Legolas laughed merrily but did not answer. They would have time for such things on their journey. “So would we,” Elrohir said, jesting lightly, “although I believe I can recall why your opinion of us is so low. But what then, Estel? What happened next?”

  
  



	35. Chapter 35

Growing closer to the events surrounding the Wood-Elf’s assault, Aragorn’s agitation increased. “We traveled through the night to reach this clearing, where the farmer from Fulton told Ament the goblet could be found, but as it was night when we arrived, Ament decided to wait until the next morn to search.” The Ranger stopped speaking, hanging his head in thought or guilt.

Seeking to alleviate the human’s uneasiness, Legolas began to tell them what he knew of that night. “Strider and Meika accompanied me into the forest to tend personal needs. Meika knew my identity, however, and bid me to run. I stayed for the same reasons as Strider, once I knew of them. I stayed to be certain Mirkwood and my father were safe, and all Elves and all peoples free of the goblet’s harm,” he reiterated, wanting the twins to know it had ultimately been his choice to remain, once he had been given one. “Ramlin came upon us arguing over my leaving, and believing Meika to be a traitor against their cause, killed him, but not before Meika inadvertently told Ramlin of my identity.”

“He sent Ramlin to check on you, case you ran off again, and then he sent Doran, too, case Strider couldn’t handle Ramlin should he try anything funny,” a gloomy Jalian said, stirring the pot of herbs. “Meika’d already told me he was going to get Strider to make you run off, though. Didn’t want Ramlin to get his way, and didn’t want no part of the goblet no more.”

“He told us as much,” the Ranger said, “before he died.”

Another brief silence ensued. “When Doran arrived, he thought Strider to be a traitor, also, and disarmed him with an arrow. He wounded me in the thigh with his arrow when I tried to run, for I had hoped that I could lead Ramlin away, though with no weapon and my hands bound, I could not fight him. Ramlin followed me through the woods, catching me because I could not lose him. I was not fast enough.” Ramlin's words echoed in his thinking: _You should have run faster, Elfling._ He trembled, seizing his knees violently, holding himself motionless in hopes of stopping the tremors that wracked him at the memory, and the sudden anguish washing over him.

His fingers feeling for the comforting, rough bark of the oak, the Silvan startled when a hand on his shoulder drew him from his despairing thoughts instead, however, and the Ranger told the Prince, “I have not yet thanked you, Legolas, for returning for me when you could have fled. Thank you, my friend.”

He did not want the human and Noldor to worry for him or notice his misery; pushing his despair aside as well as he might, Legolas accepted the Ranger’s thanks, though he felt he did not deserve it. “You should thank Elrohir, for telling me of the arrow’s location. Had he not, Ramlin would have taken my life as well, and I would not have made it back to the clearing.”

“Arrow?”

Elrohir answered Estel’s simple question. “I had a vision of Legolas’ assault. The arrow he removed from his thigh lay on the ground during his ordeal. I only told him where to find it.”

He had not considered the effect on Elrohir of seeing his grief; the Noldo was troubled. _Celebrian,_ the Prince remembered. _I have stirred up old memories for them._

“I killed Ramlin with the arrow.” The Wood-Elf tried not to think of the events surrounding the mercenary’s death as he assured the Noldo, “Had you not told me of it, Elrohir, I would be dead already.”

The twin closed his eyes and tilted his face away from the Wood-Elf, and only then did Legolas realize how his words must sound. It was too late to retract them, and nor did the Prince feel they were untrue, so when Aragorn restarted their story, the Silvan sat back against the comforting oak tree, feeling the oak’s joy at having a Wood-Elf nearby, a rarity in the virtually abandoned southern parts of Mirkwood. Legolas was glad that he had not needed to tell the details of his encounter with Ramlin to the healers: it seemed he could not cease upsetting the Noldor.

“Doran knocked me unconscious. When I woke, I was with Jalian. The others were looking for Ramlin and Legolas, hoping that Ramlin had not found him.”

“And still they did not kill you?” The bitterness of before that infused Elladan’s attitude towards his young human brother was not gone. “How did you gain their favor another time?”

Incensed at the twins’ inexplicable resentment towards Strider, Legolas listened to the Ranger’s explanation without interrupting nonetheless, as he did not know of what had happened to the human during this time. “They needed me to piece Legolas back together, should Ramlin have found him. So they tied me up and kept me alive.”

Without giving the mercenary or the Noldor particulars of the difficulty of his return to the clearing, Legolas told them casually, changing the touchy topic, “I returned to Strider because I hoped he could continue where I could not in seeing that the mercenaries would not harm my father or Eryn Galen. Sliding Ramlin’s knife into my boot, I let the mercenaries have me again.”

“Doran and Ament found the opening between the trees shortly thereafter.” Rubbing his forehead, the Ranger contemplated briefly. “Yesterday morning, I suppose it was. Doran gave us a torch, and Ament and I investigated the tunnel.”

_Valar,_ Legolas thought, _was it only yesterday?_

Pointing at the Ranger’s chest, Elrohir raised one dark brow, looked up from his sorting through their remaining herbs, and asked fragmentarily, “A torch…the burns?”

“When we came out, he seemed madder than before. He kicked Legolas, and so I attacked him.”

Snorting, Elladan snidely advised, “That is your smartest decision yet, brother. The burns were his retribution?”

“Yes,” the Ranger answered, his short tone evidence that he apparently was as aggravated with his brothers’ anger as Legolas. “We went below. They placed Legolas in a cell, while Ament, Jalian, Doran, and I investigated the tunnel.” At the mention of his desperate time in the tunnel’s cell, the Prince withdrew from the conversation as his body began to shudder from the cold sensation of hopelessness the very reminiscence brought, and only partially heard Aragorn tell his brothers, “We searched each room, finding nothing but cells. Ament sent Doran back to check on Legolas while we continued to search. Finally, we found the trapdoor. Ament and I entered, finding the goblet in Melfren’s bedchambers.” His brow furrowing, the Ranger abruptly asked, “But how did you escape from the cell, Legolas?”

He did not want to recall the blond mercenary or the utmost despair he had felt in the dark, dank, and tomb-like cell. “Doran. He came within.” The human searched the Silvan’s face, not believing the story was as simple as that. There were some things, however, that the Wood-Elf did not wish to revisit, and this misery was among them. “Using the knife I had secreted from Ramlin, I stabbed the human. He did not die, however, and followed me into the tunnel, which is when you found me,” he said, directing his explanation at the Noldor.

The twins sat mutely, trying to digest their brother’s tale and ostensibly disgusted by it, until Elladan broke the strained silence of the clearing. “Legolas. How came you to be at the mercy of the mercenaries in the beginning?”

“Your tale can wait, Legolas,” the worried human healer interrupted, telling the coughing Wood-Elf, “Your lungs do not sound well enough for answering my brothers’ curiosity.”

He shook his head, desiring to finish the story with his own version of events, to explain to the Noldor that the Ranger had not merely sat back while the mercenaries tormented him, as they obviously thought. “I do not have much to tell that you have not already said,” Legolas rasped, coughing into his hand and wiping clean the sputum, still bloody although much less so than before, onto his already filthy breeches. “I was checking on a scouting patrol, sending word that my father wished them to remain, when I stepped on an animal trap.”

“An animal trap?” asked Elrohir, his eyes narrowed and his features lightening at the strangeness of his explanation. “Tirn mentioned an animal trap but I found it hard to believe.”

The Prince nearly groaned. _I knew I would never live this down,_ he thought merrily, for anything that distracted the twins from their anger at the Ranger made Legolas happier, and then told his audience, “Yes, an animal trap. And it was rather painful, Elrohir Elrondion, so if you do not mind keeping your disbelief to yourself…” Legolas could not check his enjoyment when the Noldo looked contrite and prepared to apologize.

The horrified twins became bewildered at the Prince's sudden good humor, and then tried to hide their amusement by ducking their heads and busying themselves with their dinner, but did not succeed, and they chuckled behind their curtains of hair. Within moments, the twins were smiling at the Prince apologetically, and the Ranger only shook his head, smiling at his brothers and the Silvan in turn.

“I am sorry, Legolas,” Elladan tried to say with a straight face, but his smile broke through his stoicism, and the Noldo explained, “An animal trap, though! How did you manage to step on it hard enough to cause the mechanism to close?”

“By running.” The incredulous laughter had relieved the tension between the group of Elves and men, especially between the three brothers, and so Legolas chuckled again, inciting the others into joining him with his merriment, as the Wood-Elf could appreciate how absurd it sounded for an Elf, known for their lightness of foot, to fall for such a ruse. When they had quieted, he continued, “I’m afraid I was more preoccupied with finding the warriors, as I had a feeling of doom descend over me, and believed them to be in danger. It was I who was in danger, however, and was caught in the teeth of the trap before I knew what had occurred. Meika and Jalian had laid the trap to catch an Elf, I soon found out, which was poisoned into putting the unlucky Wood-Elf into a deep sleep.”

Jalian, who had been trying very hard to blend in with the trees out of humiliation for his part in the Prince’s story, defended his actions, saying, “Never thought it would work. Just doing what Ament told us to do. He said to lure a Wood-Elf into the trap, but you caught yourself.”

The Prince, persisting in his story as if the mercenary had not spoken, admitted, “I do not remember much about the journey to the cave.” Absently the Silvan rubbed his calf, where the sting of the trap’s teeth had all but faded with the overwhelming pain from his other injuries. “And after that, I woke with Strider looming over me.” He shifted to face the Ranger, telling him, “It is as you have said, Strider. I did not trust you in the cave, and nor did I find your compliance with the mercenaries to inspire my trust. It was not until Ramlin attacked me the first time by the river that I decided you meant me no harm.”

“You certainly could have acted more responsibly, Estel,” the elder twin offered caustically, his amusement vanquished with the reminder of his brother’s actions. “You have abetted the torture of an Elf.”

_This is the crux of their upset, then,_ he thought. _They think of their Naneth and would blame the Ranger for my death._ “I had the opportunity to flee, Elladan, several times, and did not take them. Strider tried to convince me to run. Do not fault him for that which I brought upon myself.”

Unconvinced, but again disinclined to argue with the fading Silvan, the elder Noldo switched the course of their conversation with a pessimistic frown that portended his human brother had not heard the last of their anger. “Jalian planned to leave you behind the trapdoor with Ament,” Elladan said uncharitably to the Ranger. “When you were in the cell with Ament, he came upon us while we were with the Prince, intending to flee.”

Rather than becoming angry, however, Aragorn laughed heartily at this information and settled back against the tree. “I do not blame you, Jalian. He was rather upset that you had abandoned us,” he ribbed, patting the myriad bandages over his lacerated legs.

The mercenary grinned sheepishly at his fellow human, pausing in his perpetual stirring of the cold extract he was preparing. “Nothing personal, mate. Just wanted out.”

Aragorn yawned, wincing as the deep breath expanded his torso and the injuries thereon. “I can understand that, also.”

“You have more than made up for it, Jalian,” Elrohir contended, glaring at his twin.

_Elrohir has befriended the mercenary,_ Legolas noted, shaking his head at the ludicrousness of such a thing. _This exploit has not merely been complicated, but bizarre, also._

“You have Jalian to thank, dear brother, for your timely rescue,” Elrohir told the Ranger. “Had not he agreed to help us bait Ament into coming out, I do not know that you would have survived long enough for us to devise another plan.”

“And you have Tirn to thank for agreeing to make the trade.” Elladan frowned down at the sentry beside him, smoothing back the pale blond hair as he spoke, “He felt it was his duty, but it was his love for his Prince that caused him to do it, not his duty.”

“And Legolas,” the younger twin added to the Ranger. “We have Legolas to thank for killing Ament and saving your hide many times over, brother.”

_It is I who should be thanking them._ Closing his eyes, the Silvan was assaulted by the rising tide of his desolation, and he fought the torrent of sadness. Once more, the Ranger drew him from his despondency, this time grasping the Wood-Elf’s forearm gently.

“Are all Wood-Elves so willing to sacrifice themselves for others, Legolas?”

He took the question as a rhetorical one, though he smiled, thinking, _When the cause is worthy._ Tirn’s ashen and lifeless form was not the result of a worthy cause, not in Legolas’ opinion. _It should have been me,_ he told himself again.

“Thank you, brothers and friends,” the Ranger told everyone, though he smiled in sullen acceptance of his brothers’ sermon. “I owe you all my life.”

“We go together or not all, Strider.” The man’s pleased grin at the Prince’s reminder of their oath to each other was worth the effort it took the Wood-Elf to speak, for his ribs lurched painfully into his lungs with each hacking cough that wracked his body after his words. “We should be thanking Strider,” the Wood-Elf countered when he could breathe again, saying aloud his thoughts and grabbing the Ranger’s uninjured forearm to return the encouraging gesture the human had given him. “Had it not been for your obstinate human brother’s quick thinking,” he told the twins, “Melfren would have killed me, and the rest of us soon after.”

“Ah! I believe we are almost caught up to the present,” exclaimed Elrohir at the mention of the witch. “Though none have told me what occurred while Jalian and I were underground. I have yet to hear why I found both my brothers unconscious on the ground!”

  
  



	36. Chapter 36

Elladan took up the thread of narration, “We expected Melfren to flee, muindor, but he did not. He came back to the clearing ere we could discern which way he had gone. We were unprepared.” Disgraced by his inability to aid the Ranger and Prince in their battle with the witch, the Noldo gestured towards the duo with his unbound arm, saying, “But as I was incapacitated for most of the time, it would be better should Estel or Legolas tell you, Elrohir.”

“Melfren cast a spell on us,” the Ranger stated, covering his mouth to hide another yawn. “None of us could move.”

“Except when I flew across the clearing,” the elder twin joked gaily, receiving a trenchant glower from his stressed other half: Elrohir leant forward, placing his elbows on his knees to listen absorbedly to the story.

“You would not be so happy to hear that Melfren almost killed you while you were unconscious, Elladan,” the Prince chastised. “Had Strider not distracted Melfren, you may well not be here to make such jests.”

“How did Aragorn distract him?” Elrohir asked, looking very much like an Elfling listening to a terrifying bedtime story.

 _It is a frightening tale, at any rate,_ the Wood-Elf decided of Elrohir’s rapt attention: he snorted, “Strider distracted Melfren by making him angry.”

“Estel!”

Their tiredness and relief at finally being safe was making them somewhat giddy, it seemed, for even the anger the twins had displayed earlier was now lessened. Aragorn lifted his shoulders slightly before letting them fall with obvious uncaring, his response to Elrohir and Elladan’s simultaneously voiced disbelief said dryly, “It was all I could think to do.” Tilting his head to the side in thought, the Ranger added, “I believe the witch’s transformation was not complete, for Ament’s fury for us remained.”

“Your inciting his anger is likely what caused the spell that held us motionless to be broken,” the Silvan explained, the epiphany coming to him quickly. "Melfren could control Ament's body, but not when Ament's anger became greater than Melfren's control."

The Wood-Elf and Ranger contemplated without speaking for a few minutes until Elrohir eagerly, impatiently cleared his throat. “And?”

Legolas could not help but to smile at the Noldo’s impatience. _If he thinks he has missed a fine battle, he would be sorely mistaken._ “And,” the Prince said, drawing out the word slowly, “the witch…” He stopped, amending, “Ament tried to kill me. I rolled away and Strider attacked the mercenary.”

“But I could not stop him,” the Ranger sighed. “When he threw his dagger at my chest I was sure I was dead.”

“As was I, muindor.” Elrohir sat upright, physically shaking off the terror at seeing both his brothers injured and seemingly deceased. Even Legolas had thought the Noldo and Ranger dead as he had followed Ament into the woods.

“I saw Legolas running after him, and it is the last I remember.” Strider yawned again, chafing his bearded face with the heels of his hands. “It does not explain how you slew Melfren,” he prompted the Wood-Elf.

He could never explain how he had chased the mercenary through the forest, how his own hatred had kept him afloat in his submerging, discolored grief. He did not want the others to know of Ament’s words, that the mercenary would receive his contrived revenge with the Prince’s eventual death. So instead, the Wood-Elf told them succinctly, “I chased him through the forest and caught up to him. He fell to the ground. We struggled but I gained the upper hand, pinning him to the roots with Elrohir’s sword.” The Elves and Ranger did not question him for more information, and for this, the Silvan was grateful. “I did not want his blood upon my hands, for I wanted to give no more credence to his claims against my father or myself,” he finished, seeing plainly from Elrohir’s aggrieved expression that the Noldo remembered the horrific sight from his ken into the Prince’s suffering in that moment of resolution. “So I let the spiders have him.”

Jalian, who had remained quiet for some time now, piped up from across the clearing, saying callously, “He’ll likely turn sour the spiders' stomachs.”

Although his sentiment was serious, the disfigured mercenary’s spiteful words were darkly comical to the Elves and Ranger, and after glancing at each other in ill-hidden hilarity, they broke out into raucous laughter at the odd image Jalian had shared with them. For his part, the scarred human merely smiled confusedly as their amused cachinnations died. They sat in the comfortable quiet of the forest’s night, listening to the chirping of the crickets for a long time.

 _This tale is over,_ the Silvan thought. Telling the account had exhausted him and reliving it had grieved him; however, the Prince was glad the tale was told. _If I do not make it to Eryn Galen, then they will have some explanation to give my father._

“Ilúvatar has certainly been busy keeping us safe,” Elrohir mused after a long silence, shaking his head in bewildered amusement and staring blankly up into the night sky.

_That, my friend, is an understatement._

The tale seemed too outlandish for any to believe, and had not the Prince lived it, he would have doubted such a story could be true. Chance had guided Strider to stay in Fulton the same night that Ament and Ramlin visited there; it was merely a fortuitous decision on the part of Elladan and Elrohir to meet their human brother as he traveled home; according to the twins’ account of Tirn’s search, fate had led the sentry to meeting the Noldor and to following the Anduin south such that they discovered the mercenaries’ tracks in the copse of trees. Legolas was not sure, and he did not wish to attribute his becoming caught in the animal trap to anything but his own foolishness, but to the Wood-Elf, it was providence that had led him to the snare. Had he not been caught or any of the other Elves or men around him not been inexplicably drawn together, the odds of Ament and Ramlin’s plans coming to fruition, or other Elves or men dying in their trying, would have been much greater. It had worked out for the greater good in the end, after all.

Injured and grieving as he was, Legolas smiled, agreeing with Elrohir, “The Valar must have blessed our every step.”

 _Even those that led me into the trap,_ he added to himself, laughing at his thoughts, and earning him several very bemused stares before the clearing became still again. Tirn’s part of the story they would not hear this night. It was apparent that the sentry had been caught in the collapse and had his throat slit by Ament, but what else the Wood-Elf could tell them would have to wait, should he ever awaken. Ramlin, Ament, Doran, and Meika’s stories had died with them, and so too might Tirn’s. Each of the Elves and men became immersed in his reflections on the revelations exposed, though none felt any sense of closure by this denouement, especially lacking the pieces of the mystery from those without the voice to tell them. It did seem that the greater part of the story was laid bare before them, though, and their curiosities satisfied.

The Wood-Elf and Ranger had yet to hear all of the twins’ apparent disgust, but neither desired to, and Strider evaded for them both, laying himself on the ground to face the shadowy night sky, “Let us speak more of this tomorrow, brothers. I do not know how much longer I can remain awake.”

Smiling without humor, Elrohir handed Legolas a blanket, which he promptly spread over the Ranger. “Go to sleep, then, Estel. We would not have you lapsing into dreams while you sit, lest you injure yourself further.”

The human thanked the Prince, yawned, and then closed his eyes. Before long, Strider’s breathing had evened, and he slept peacefully. The Noldor and Jalian sat quietly, each lost in his own thoughts. Jalian’s explanation for Ament and Ramlin’s deviant thinking left them all with much upon which to ponder, but Legolas did not waste his effort in considering the human brothers’ reasoning behind their actions: nothing could ever hope to explain to the Prince their hatred for Elves, and their treatment of the Ranger and himself. He had lived to see the mercenaries dead, and now he would die to see his friends live: his heart rejoiced when the ancient oak tree sang to him of its approval of his plans to endure, lifting his grief for a brief, wonderful moment, and filling him with hope.

Looking up to the benighted sky, the Wood-Elf smiled, letting the dim light of the stars shine down upon his face. His part in the story was almost complete.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So that Aragorn and Jalian would not grow cold, the elder twin lit a blaze in the fire pit the mercenaries had been using. The yellow, multifarious eyes of the unnameable creatures in the trees irked Elladan’s sense of safety. He was certainly not used to camping in the Mirkwood forest and had little knowledge of the oddities hiding in the boughs above, drawn to the campfire, but it mattered little when the Ranger had begun to shiver. If he had been willing to admit it, Elladan would also have found that his sympathies extended to the scarred mercenary, as well. Regardless of Jalian’s past deeds, Elrohir currently held some respect for the mercenary, and his twin’s opinion was enough to sway Elladan’s feelings about Jalian... for now. He had the strange feeling that while he had been with Estel and Legolas, the human and his twin had found a common ground between them, and it was on this that they had based their tentative confidence in the other.

Of course, as furious as he currently was with his human brother, the twin was also more worried than he had ever been over the Adan. _Aragorn has more explaining to do than retelling the horrid facts of this farce he has used to keep the Prince in captivity._ Sitting beside the Ranger and the Silvan, Elladan examined his sleeping brother’s bandages: he slid the blanket from the human’s chest, carefully exposing the charred punctures on the pierced flesh of his adopted sibling’s torso by unwinding the linen holding the swatches of bandaging in place. _He has been through much,_ the sorrowful Noldo thought. He daubed more ointment over the burns, pausing each time the Ranger stirred. The gashes on the human’s legs, throat, forearm and the scissions on his upper arm and chest were furiously red. _They are becoming infected but not too badly. He has been too long without proper care._

Finished seeing to the Ranger, Elladan noted that his twin and the mercenary were finally collocating their paltry provisions into satchels. _Perhaps Legolas knows of a stream or brook somewhere close. We do not have the time to travel to the river for water,_ he contemplated, shaking the last drops of water from the flask they had used for their dinner onto a clean cloth. He wiped the Silvan’s upper arm, where the skin and muscle had been sliced nearly to the bone. It had stopped bleeding, but Elladan knew it was likely only because the Wood-Elf had little blood to spare. Too tired to argue and strangely more tranquil, the Prince did not refuse the treatment.

“It is your turn, Elladan,” his twin told him, settling behind Elladan to prod the set of his broken collarbone. Recoiling at the handling, he felt Elrohir grab the back of his tunic, saying, “Be still or I will just wait until you are sleeping.” His twin checked the lump on Elladan's scalp and the gash on his forehead before concluding, “You do not appear to be concussed too badly. In fact,” the younger Noldo teased merrily, “your flight across the clearing seems to have knocked some sense into you.”

“How is that?” the Wood-Elf asked, flattening the blanket inattentively over his human companion. By dint of sheer willpower, the Silvan managed to fight slumber, but even now, as he spoke, the young Elf’s eyes closed and his head dipped forward under the weight of trying to remain conscious.

“Because he is submitting to a healer.” Laughing, the Noldo stood, collecting the used linen and other items and walking to the fire pit. “Let us all get some rest,” Elrohir suggested, throwing the soiled bandaging into the flames before adding another small limb, stirring up a cloud of ash and sparks in the process. “I will take first watch.”

“ _I_ will take first watch,” Elladan countered. “You rest with the others, Elrohir.” His twin, while uninjured, was clearly strained beyond endurance. Having to care for his two wounded brothers, a comatose sentry, and a grief-stricken Wood-Elf with none but Jalian’s help had already exhausted the younger twin.

“Tomorrow night you may take a watch. Tonight you sleep,” the younger twin insisted.

The Wood-Elf argued, also, saying, “I will take a watch tonight. You will need rest, too, Elrohir.”

Removing the herbs from his satchel that he had earlier tried to convince the Prince to take, Elladan took up his brother’s cause when Elrohir sighed brokenheartedly. The young Noldo was having a more difficult time than Elladan in trying to help the Wood-Elf, and so Elladan tried for him.

“Please, Legolas,” he said quietly, not wishing to wake the sleeping Ranger, “take these. You will only sleep the night.” He held the herbs out to the Silvan. When it seemed the Wood-Elf would refuse, Elladan petitioned, “Tomorrow we will need you to guide us to the King’s halls, Legolas. We need you to be rested.”

Legolas had shown his worth several times over, and were he healthy, Elladan would gladly place his life and those of his brothers in the hands of the Wood-Elf. Looking to the Prince now, though, he could see that the archer could barely keep his eyes open. He was not only injured, but also gaunt with fatigue.

Suspiciously did the Wood-Elf glare at him; however, Legolas laid himself down on his side without accepting the dried herbs the twin wanted him to consume. Elladan traded a knowing, indulgent, and thoroughly worried look with his twin as the Prince moved to be closer to Aragorn. Placing his head on the gnarled root of the tree against which he lay, the Silvan gripped the exposed root with one hand, and with his other hand, he held tight to the corner of Estel’s blanket from where it lay on the ground beside him. Before long, the emaciated and battered Wood-Elf’s eyes were closed and only the railing, rattling sound of his lungs showed the young Elf lived at all.

Replacing the herbs once more in his satchel, Elladan waited until it was apparent that neither the Wood-Elf nor the Ranger would awaken before he told his twin, speaking so softly that he knew Jalian would not hear, “Legolas will die.”

“His death would be no different than Tirn’s,” the younger twin told his older sibling, matching the soft tone of his voice to keep their conversation private, and sharing his brother’s recognition of Aragorn’s part in it. “They are warriors, Elladan, not innocents.”

“Tirn had a choice.”

“And so did Legolas, as he has told us. And had he not, it would be Legolas’ forgiveness Estel should seek, not ours,” Elrohir argued, handing his twin a second blanket.

He was well aware of this, and knew how irrational his anger towards the Ranger was, but Elladan was ashamed of his younger, human brother for aiding in that from which Elves could not recover. _Not even Valinor could soothe this hurt, should Legolas live long enough to sail. And Thranduil. What of him? He has lost much already: to lose both his wife and his son._

“Elladan –”

Spreading the blanket over the slumbering Wood-Elf, the elder Noldo looked tearfully to his twin, preempting his brother’s comfort. “Enough, Elrohir. Let us think of this later.”

Elrohir did not argue further, but pressed a third blanket into his twin’s hands, begging, “Sleep, brother.”

He lay himself down close to the Ranger and Silvan, unwilling to admit his own tiredness but longing to be free of his worries, and the story of his brother and the Wood-Elf’s torment.

Before long, however, his own eyes had closed, evincing the depths of his exhaustion and injuries, and he slept. Tomorrow he could contend with Estel’s irrational actions and the two dying Wood-Elves. Tomorrow they would depart. Tomorrow the sun would rise again and perhaps then, providence would guide them once more under the auspices of Eru’s creation to a safer and more optimistic hereafter.

  
  


 


	37. Chapter 37

_I give up,_ the Noldo complained, rolling onto his back to stare at the fading stars through the openings between the tree’s branches. _I will get no sleep, and the sun will rise soon anyway._ Extending his arms under his head, Elrohir stretched out further, struggling to remain lying on the ground. If he rose another time to check on his brothers, Tirn, or the Prince, he quite feared that Jalian would make good on his promise and would try to sing him to sleep. He was not sure that the mercenary could not sing; however, Elrohir was not eager to test the man’s flippant offer or his musical talent.

Although the Firstborn didn’t require as much sleep as the Secondborn, he had partaken of little rest during their journey here and the strain of being the only uninjured and competent Elf in their party weighed heavily upon him. It would be Elrohir’s task to see that his brothers and friends were safe and healthy, and though he would see to this undertaking willingly, he felt overwhelmed by it already. Moreover, it was the fear for his two brothers, his lack of complete trust in the mercenary, and the failing Wood-Elves that had kept the younger Noldo from finding any much-needed rest of his own. _When we get to Eryn Galen, I will sleep for a week._ Tossing about restlessly, Elrohir tried a final time to find comfort where he lay, to find rest.

His fidgety activity did not go unnoticed, however, and the mercenary called to him from across the campfire, though his voice was barely a whisper, “I don’t see why I’m awake if you don’t plan to sleep, Elf.”

Elrohir smiled. _He reminds me of Elladan. Neither of them has ever learnt when it is best to keep one’s thoughts to himself._ Sitting abruptly, the Noldo first glanced around the clearing, quickly checking by the peaceful rise and fall of each chest that all of his patients were both asleep and well, before he turned to glare at the mercenary. _If I told Elladan that Jalian and he have much in common, I am sure that Elladan would beat me senseless._ His smile undermining his glare, the twin added wistfully, _At least then I could find some rest._

“Then go to sleep, Jalian. I’ve no wish to deal with another grumpy human. Strider will be a terror by nightfall tomorrow.”

Snorting softly, the scarred mercenary stirred the flames of the fire with a long branch, “It’s almost sun up, now. No point in me sleeping.”

_My thoughts exactly._ He rolled onto his knees, and then climbed to his feet to walk across the clearing where Tirn lay motionless on the ground beside where the mercenary sat. The sentry’s condition had not changed during the long night: his pale skin had grown no less white, his dark and sunken eyes had not opened, and his breath still came in shallow and futile gasps, though these had grown deeper and calmer as time passed.

Elladan checked Tirn’s injuries for infection and ascertained that the Wood-Elf would be well enough for travel. He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment as tears stung them, blurring his vision of the sentry’s hand as he re-wrapped the wound. _You promised you would not return without Legolas, Tirn. You have completed your duty._ He rose, ignoring the mercenary’s questioning glance as he rubbed his eyes briskly free of the bothersome tears welling there. Only a few feet away from Tirn lay his sleeping brothers and the Prince, their bodies side by side, with the Ranger in the middle. _They would both be awake by now if we were home,_ the Noldo thought of his twin and human brother and their propensity to rise early. He grabbed his nearby satchel to settle on the ground between them to tend their injuries, hoping not to wake them as he changed their bandaging, also.

Peering down at his twin and human sibling, Elrohir imagined that the peaceful slumber in which the Noldo and Ranger were engaged was that of normal sleep. If not for the bandages and gaunt, dirtied appearances, the brothers could have been sleeping in their soft beds in Imladris, for all the care they exhibited, and the Noldo smiled at the contented imagining.

In contrast, Elrohir was surprised that the Prince had lasted the night. _He needs to be with his father and people, even if it is only for the short time before he fades,_ the Noldo thought, adjusting the blanket over the nearby Aragorn when finished checking the human’s scorched flesh. Much to Elrohir’s amazement, as the edge of the Ranger’s blanket, the edge that Legolas had been holding, slipped from the Prince’ fingers, the Wood-Elf stirred and then awoke completely with a mere blink of his eyes, which then focused unerringly on the Noldo.

“Is something amiss?” the Prince inquired, his voice cracking as he spoke. “Is everyone well?”

“Nothing is amiss,” Elrohir placated. He gently, uselessly pressed the archer’s uninjured shoulder to keep him from rising from the ground: with a pained grunt, the Wood-Elf rose regardless to look around the clearing. “And everyone is well, Legolas. But since you are awake, let me see to your thigh.”

Without answering, the Silvan scrambled to his knees to check the status of his friends for himself, and seeing ostensibly that Tirn, Elladan, and Aragorn were all well, sat back on his heels in relief. “Tirn?”

“His condition has not changed,” Elrohir replied, feeling as discouraged as the Prince that the sentry showed no signs of an improved state. Tentatively, Elrohir reached for the cloth wrapped around the Wood-Elf’s thigh, his gaze not leaving the archer’s to verify that Legolas would not react violently to his handling. The Prince was besieged by a bout of coughing, though, his body heaving forward with the force of it: Elrohir held the Silvan up, supporting the archer from falling when Legolas could not intake any air with which to continue coughing. The sting of tears came over Elrohir once again when he saw the blood covering the Silvan’s hand and chin, expelled from the archer’s lungs.

“Here,” he told Legolas, giving him a swatch of cloth to wipe clean the blood from his face. The Prince nodded his thanks, still unable to breathe. “Your thigh…” the Noldo began but was interrupted by the mercenary, who had brought with him a flask of water for Legolas. “ Thank you, Jalian.”

He helped the Silvan to drink, worrying over how to convince the Prince to let him see his arrow wound on his upper leg: he was not as comfortable as his brother was in giving help where it was not wanted. Like Elladan, Elrohir had learnt from his father how to coax anxious or otherwise unwilling patients into accepting treatment with an outwardly callous and detached demeanor. The problem for Elrohir was that he found it difficult to affect this manner, especially when sitting before the young Elf he had seen suffer in his visions.

Once more, the Noldo was astonished, for Legolas prodded his thigh himself, freeing the bandaging ere Elrohir could, to say, “I do not think it is infected. It does not hurt more than before.”

“It does not appear infected, either,” the Noldo told the Wood-Elf, replacing the blood soaked bandage with clean. He breathed easier now that the archer did not evade his touch. _He will be better,_ Elrohir hoped, _if he does not shut us out._

A mantle of sunlight suddenly fell into the clearing from the rising sun in the east, blanketing them in its warmth and comfort. _We waste the morning,_ Elrohir decided, though he did not wish to wake his brothers from their healing slumber.

Voicing his thoughts aloud, the young Noldo told the Prince and Jalian, “I should wake Aragorn and Elladan. We will need to leave soon.”

“What about me?” Squirming on the ground, the mercenary fiddled with a blade he had plucked from clumps of summer grass around him.

Not understanding the strange statement, Elrohir asked Jalian, “What of you?”

Tearing the blade of grass into pieces, the mercenary shifted uncomfortably, chewing on his lips in demurral. _What is the matter with him?_

“You are free to leave if you wish,” the Prince decreed, astounding Elrohir a third time this morning. “You have repaid any debt you owed for your actions, Master Human.”

_Free?_

“Free?” the mercenary echoed, amusing the Noldo as his own disbelieving thoughts were repeated.

The Prince smiled slightly at Jalian and lifted his tunic to expose his chest for Elrohir to care for, saying, “Although I would rather you travel with us, both for your protection in leaving the forest, and for our need for another uninjured person to accompany us to Mirkwood.”

“Sure, mate… I mean, your Majesty,” the human bumbled, bowing his head slightly in happy confusion and befuddled respect. “I would, but...”

Jalian’s agitation had increased tenfold at the mention of Mirkwood, and the implication behind this reticence Legolas understood, for he assured the mercenary, “You are free to go now, or at any time before we reach Eryn Galen’s palace, but King Thranduil will accept my declaration that you have redeemed yourself, Jalian. You have my word.”

Elrohir did not doubt the Prince’s promise in the least: twice already, he had kept it even amidst unbeatable odds, as when he promised to kill Ament and did so, or when he made the oath to Elrohir to return to the clearing to aid him, which he had kept despite his ailing health and grief.

To Elrohir the Silvan instructed, “If I do not survive until we reach Eryn Galen, you will tell my father this? He will trust your word.”

The request, despite its morbid undertone, was practical, nonetheless, and so Elrohir agreed. “I will.”

The man’s disfigured face brightened with the alleviation of his fears, for he believed the Prince’s oath readily, also; however, Jalian sobered with a thoughtful frown and crawled to his knees, grabbing something from the pile of luggage they would pack onto the horses. “I’d like to bury Meika before we go, if you don’t mind,” the mercenary explained quietly as he stood: it was a small spade that he held and the mercenary tapped its handle against his thigh. “The rest of them can rot in the woods, for all I care now. But Meika deserves better’n that.”

“I agree.” Legolas pushed his hair from his eyes, tucking the dirtied locks back into the cloth strap with which he had tied it back the day before. “I will help you.”

He did not want to deny the mercenary the opportunity to grieve for his friend, nor tell him that he could not bury the man as he desired, but Elrohir hesitated. _We do not have time. I would leave as quickly as possible._

“I will help you also, Jalian.” Elrohir craned his neck around Legolas to see the Ranger rising into sitting from his makeshift bed. They had woken Aragorn. With a frown and a softly muttered curse, Estel had drawn himself into sitting cross-legged.

The human’s hair stood up in odd angles at the back of his head and the Noldo longed to go tousle that wayward clump of curls. _Even after these years of seeing him in battle, Estel is still a child to me._

“We cannot all go. Elladan is still sleeping and someone must stay with Tirn.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His collarbone ached relentlessly, and he was certain that Elrohir had adjusted the much-beleaguered set of the broken bone during the course of the night, just as he had threatened to do. _Elrohir won’t leave this break alone. If he resets it again, it will never heal._ Ignoring the nagging thought that if he would stop disrupting the break, then his twin wouldn’t need to set it continually, Elladan tried also to ignore the lively camp. He did not want to awaken, though the bright sunlight bid him to rise and the incessant chatter of his companions kept him from returning to his slumber. Elladan opened his eyes, surprised to find that they had been shut completely, to see that the Ranger beside him was awake, as was the Silvan, for he could see both of them sitting side by side only an arm’s reach away, facing Elrohir and Jalian. When it occurred to Elladan that his brother was quarreling without him, a pastime that Elladan enjoyed, the elder Noldo wished to sleep no longer, and he sat up hurriedly, eager to find out of what their argument concerned. Of course, his abrupt action jostled the broken bone he had only just been complaining about, and Elladan moaned in pain.

All eyes turned to the Noldo: Estel badgered his eldest brother, telling Elladan, “Muindor! Use more caution, please!”

“Yes, Elladan. I’ve no wish to set that break again,” Elrohir added from across the clearing.

_Neither do I wish you to set it again,_ he thought to himself, adjusting his seat on the ground so that he was no longer on the fringes of the circle of Elves and men, but sitting beside the Ranger. Aloud, though, the Noldo asked, “About what are you arguing?”

“Nothing, now that you are awake, Elladan,” the Prince told him with a smile. It seemed to the Noldo that the entire camp was in a good mood this morning, and for the first time in many days, the elder twin discovered that he, too, felt relatively well, despite his injuries. “Elrohir did not wish to wake you, but nor would he leave Strider and I alone while fetching Meika.”

“He has woken me, regardless, with his incessant bitching,” the Noldo jibed his twin cheerily, looking to Elrohir to gauge if his brother had obtained any rest at all during the night. _He has found no repose,_ Elladan judged, seeing that his twin, while as smiling and jovial as the others, appeared no less strained. The meaning of Legolas’ words hit him, however, and realizing he had missed the information before, the older twin asked shortly, “Meika?”

“We wish to bury him before we leave,” Elrohir explained.

Jalian, who had become fidgety, added, “It won’t take long, I promise. I’ll be quick.”

_He acts as though I would argue against allowing him to say goodbye to his friend._ Elladan realized, _And he has no reason to think otherwise, as I have made it clear I do not trust him, nor like him._ What convinced the Noldo to acquiesce to Jalian’s desire was that Meika had tried to help Estel and Legolas, however, and not Jalian’s sorrowful discomfort, and so he agreed, “I will help you.”

“With all of us digging, it shouldn’t take long at all,” Elrohir beamed at his twin, clearly glad to see his brother treating the mercenary with more respect than the day before. “It would be best that we retrieve Meika and bury him here, so that we are not separated for long.” Elrohir grabbed a blanket from their pile and followed Jalian from the campsite.

Elladan prepared himself to tend the Ranger and Prince’s wounds, but could tell by the clean bandaging and smell of herbs in the air, only slightly overpowered by the more pungent smell of death and blood, that Elrohir had seen to their companions’ needs already. To pass the time, the twin busied himself with packing the last of their possessions, enjoying the comfortable silence between the Wood-Elf and Adan as they rolled their blankets for travel. Jalian and the younger Noldo returned in a few minutes, carrying the corpse of the slain mercenary. Elladan had not seen Meika before, but the human did not appear the type to be involved with Ament and his cruel plans. Luckily, no passing scavengers had found the human’s body, and so after washing clean Meika’s face, Jalian and Elrohir had the man’s corpse prepared.

They took turns with one of the spades: Elladan could use only one arm and the Ranger’s aid in digging was short-lived, because with too much movement the human would become pale and weak, though he would not admit it. The Silvan could barely stand, much less perform the demanding physical labor required in digging. Thus, though the others tried, it was Jalian and Elrohir who ended up carving out the space in the dense ground between the trunks of the trees in the far end of the clearing, opposite the trees to which led the underground lair, where they would entomb the mercenary’s body.

_I hope this is the only grave we dig on this journey,_ the Noldo thought, leaning against the tree behind him as Elrohir and Jalian placed the final rocks they had collected over the fresh dirt of the only piece of land Meika would ever own.

“Would you care to say something?”

The mercenary flushed in discomfort at the Ranger’s question. “Meika’s not much for words.” Correcting himself, the human said, “He _wasn’t_ one for words. I’m not good with them either.” Brushing his hands of the loose soil clinging to them, Jalian blurted, “Meika was a good man.” Standing from where he knelt beside his friend’s grave, Jalian told his audience with a sad smile, “Leastways when he wasn’t listening to my bad advice.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aragorn removed the baggage from the sentry’s horse, knowing that the Silvan would ride better without it, but replaced upon the mount’s back a layer of blankets they had collected from the mercenaries, knowing that the Prince would need the cushioning. The Ranger could envision that the blankets would keep the Silvan from being injured further by the jouncing of the horse during their journey.

The Wood-Elf coughed lightly as he approached the Ranger, and then looked at his hand. _His lungs no longer bleed,_ the Ranger sighed, noting, as did the Silvan, that little blood appeared on the archer’s palm. _Unless his lungs can no longer be cleared by his coughing._

As the Ranger aided the Wood-Elf onto Tirn’s horse, the human regretted his not trying harder to convince the Silvan into riding with him, instead of riding alone. _I hope he can remain on his horse. He looks as if he will fade at any moment._ Legolas adjusted his weapons on his back, the straps holding his quiver barely belted to keep them from chafing his bruised ribs. _It is just as well,_ Estel told himself, handing Legolas one of the few flasks of water they had left, one that Elrohir had procured from his and Elladan’s supplies the night before, ere the Ranger walked to his own mount. _I would have been more a burden to him than he would to me._ His punctured and aching torso could not have withstood the archer sitting before him, nor could Legolas have supported the Ranger with his cracked ribs. After burying Meika, they had argued for nearly half the remainder of the morning over riding arrangements. That the Prince wanted his sentry to ride with him did not help matters, and only by Elrohir’s convincing the Silvan that Tirn would ride with him, where the sentry would best be cared for, was the matter resolved. Neither Legolas nor Aragorn wished to ride with Elladan, for his broken collarbone prevented this. In the end, a frazzled Elrohir had ordered them to ride alone, if only to get them moving before they lost most of the day arguing.

Climbing onto his horse’s back proved a much harder task than the Ranger was prepared for: the arm he usually used to pull himself onto his horse was injured. The muscles in his forearm were torn by Doran’s arrow, and the human only made it onto his mount when Jalian, passing by to carry another load of baggage to Meika’s laden horse, gave Aragorn a boost into his saddle. _We are a motley lot, to be sure,_ he reflected, settling in for the ride, and watching the complicated process of the twins’ attempting to transfer Tirn into Elrohir’s waiting arms. _Elrohir is the only one uninjured, and thus the only one who could fight effectively if need be. I hope we do not run into trouble. He could not defend us holding Tirn._

The scarred Adan was the last to mount, holding the lead in one hand that tethered his fellow mercenaries’ horses, on which they had arranged the necessities scavenged from the others’ belonging that would be needed during their journey. With Jalian trailing them, and Elladan leading them, Aragorn followed Legolas’ borrowed horse, which followed Elrohir and his sentry, out of the clearing and away from the dead mercenaries and the reek of death. He could not have been more relieved than he was at that moment – at least, he could imagine feeling no more relieved until they arrived in Eryn Galen. He did not expect a grand welcome from the King for him or his brothers: once Thranduil knew of his part in his son’s tribulation the King would likely bar the Ranger from his lands, if not throw him in the dungeon or slay him on the spot. For now, Estel would welcome even this, if it meant his brothers and the two Wood-Elves would be safe.

With little to look at but the warped trees surrounding them, the Ranger amused himself with his thoughts, letting his mind wander, his mood lightening from the pensive contemplation of what they would face in Mirkwood to the odd circumstances of his brothers coming to collect him and the Prince happening upon Jalian and Meika in the forest.

Remembering their conversation from the night before, he pondered, _Elrohir has had visions. I wonder what Ada will think of this when we return to Imladris._ Knowing that Elrohir and Elladan had searched for he and the Prince based solely on these revelations made the Ranger all the more happy that his adopted Elven brother had listened to them. _It is all chance,_ he thought, amazed at the culmination of what had occurred, and still in awe that Ament, Ramlin, Doran, and Meika were dead. _If this experience has taught me nothing else, it has certainly taught me that danger, or safety, can be found where one least expects it._ He smiled down at his hands tightly gripping the reins, thinking, _I am beginning to sound like Ada. I wonder what he would think of_ that _._

The very thought of Lord Elrond and what the Elven Lord may think of their journey, and of his actions during them, caused the Ranger to suddenly muse, _Perhaps we should spend some time in Eryn Galen. Valar knows we could use the delay for healing, and for me to think of a way to explain this to Ada,_ he decided, feeling the burn on his stomach elongating with each shifting step of his mount. The faithful beast did not once lose its footing but his horse was not accustomed to traveling amongst the twisted and knotted tree roots that littered the ground and obscured the forest floor, for neither horse nor Ranger had ever entered a forest as dense and dark as the southern part of Mirkwood.

Nearly three hours into their riding, and when he could take the silence of their somber traveling no longer, Estel caught the attention of the Wood-Elf beside him, calling, “Legolas.” Much more slowly than it should have taken, the archer turned to him, his intense concentration on the forest around them lighting upon the Ranger. “Tell me how you have met my brothers,” Aragorn prompted, which earned him a slight smile from the distracted Prince.

It was Elladan who answered, though, and he slowed his horse from ahead of them to insert, “It is hardly worth mentioning.” One lofty, ebony eyebrow rose on the Noldo’s forehead, its upper curve hidden under the bandaging wrapped around Elladan’s healing head wound. “We met near the Misty Mountains. The Prince and his fellow warriors were in need of aid, and we supplied it.”

“Why were you on the Misty Mountains?” the Ranger asked of both the Prince and his brother.

Again, it was Elladan who answered, “Not on the Misty Mountains, but close to them. We had just finished escorting Arwen back to Lorien and were returning to Imladris, ready to pass over the mountains, though we had camped at the foothills.” Aragorn’s attention perked from his casual surveying of the surrounding forest at the mention of Arwen. The Noldo shifted in his seat with a facetious grimace in the Silvan’s general direction, complaining with teasing distaste, “Legolas and his warriors, however, were chasing Orc through the forest, and disrupted our campsite with their skirmish across the Anduin.”

All humor gone, the Silvan bowed his head and told Elladan with sincerity, “My apologies, my friend. I did not mean to disrupt the beauty sleep of two Noldor who so obviously need it.”

For a moment, the Ranger believed he had misheard the Prince, whose odd demeanor had not matched his solemn words, but when Elrohir’s laughter from ahead was joined by Elladan’s, Aragorn decided he must have heard Legolas correctly; this was confirmed when the Prince raised his head, the wide smile on his beaten face lighting his haggard features.

“That is unfair,” Elladan retorted, shaking his finger at the Wood-Elf in accusation. Turning to his human brother, the elder Noldo explained conspiratorially, “By joining the fray, we saved Legolas and his fellow warriors from certain loss – and that is how we met.”

Legolas laughed at Elladan’s explanation, making the Ranger very glad to have brought up the subject, if it would elicit such a happy response from the grieving Silvan. “That is not how we met,” the Prince said, his final snickers dying away though the mirthful sparkle in his blue eyes remained. “And you hardly _saved_ me from death, Elladan.”

“Don’t tell Estel the story! There is no need to give him any ideas, Legolas. He is uncontrolled enough as it is,” Elrohir called from the front of their line of traveling horses.

“But it was your idea, Elrohir. If he is irresponsible, he has learned it from you.”

Elladan nodded his head in agreement to Legolas' claim. “Speaking of irresponsibility: Estel’s last idea left all of Imladris in a terrible state,” the elder twin eluded slyly, winking mischievously at the Ranger, which only caused the human to worry.

_I had hoped they had forgotten my last prank._

“You change the subject,” the Ranger charged, uncomfortable at the switch in conversation. Retribution would come for the prank he had pulled, he knew, and so he tried to change the topic back. “I asked Legolas a question, not you, _dear brother._ ”

The Silvan offered, “I will tell you of how I first met your brothers if you tell me what mischief you’ve caused that had all of Imladris in such an uproar.” When the Ranger nodded his reluctant agreement, Legolas told Aragorn gleefully, setting his horse’s pace to match the human’s so they could converse without obstruction, “Elladan and Elrohir tried to kill me.”

  
  



	38. Chapter 38

As they drew closer to Eryn Galen, and moved farther from the southern part of the forest, the tainted trees grew fewer in number: those that were not tainted sang in a chorus of life that never ceased to amaze the Wood-Elf.  _Soon we will come across trees that I have met before._ The idea comforted him. 

Legolas had expected the Ranger to be confounded at his answer, or perhaps worried, but Strider grinned sympathetically and told the Silvan, “I am not surprised. If only I had a mithril bauble for every time Elladan and Elrohir had tried to kill me...”

“Estel!” Placing his hand over his chest, Elladan teased, acting as if though the Ranger had wounded him with his statement, “We have not tried to kill you for at least a year!”

“That is only because he has been gone for over a year, Elladan,” the younger twin retorted dryly from ahead of them.

The Wood-Elf smiled to see the twins’ treating their human brother with less anger than they had the night before. _If this is their manner all the time, I could not blame Strider for leaving._ He chuckled at his own thoughts: he had no siblings and so did not quite understand their strange humor, but the Silvan was not altogether sure it wasn’t just the twins’ humor, and had nothing to do with their being brothers.

Rolling his eyes, the Ranger put the sidetracked conversation back on topic, yet again, by asking, “When did they try to kill you, Legolas?”

“I was barely old enough to be a warrior.” The Wood-Elf frowned and attempted to remember how many years ago the incident had occurred. “In fact, I believe that it was my first patrol.” Shifting on his horse, Legolas tried to find the memories as he tried to find a comfortable seat on the mount. He did not want to confess it to the others, but his pain had not abated, and the perpetual agony of his body being jarred by the gentle gait of the sentry’s horse was making it hard for him to think clearly. Each time he closed his eyes he found it harder to open them again. Nevertheless, he basked in his companions’ banter, their amusing antics and arguments as warming to him as the sun trickling through the boughs of the trees overhead.

“Legolas?”

The Prince opened his eyes, not truly aware that he had shut them again, to find that Strider was on the verge of leaping from his horse to catch the Silvan. “I was only remembering,” the archer tried to appease the worried Noldor and Ranger, who relaxed to see he had not lost consciousness though they still regarded him with cautious eyes.

Surreptitiously, or so he hoped, the Silvan righted himself from the slouch his failing body had assumed, and he grinned at them, continuing his story as if he had not been on the brink of insensibility. “We were accompanying a group of Wood-Elves that were traveling to Lorien to visit their kin. We intended to escort them over the Anduin so that they could travel on its western shore, where the road is safer. However, as we crossed the river, a band of Orc spotted us.” Legolas adjusted himself again, invoking a disgruntled snort from his borrowed horse at his inability to be still. He patted the horse’s neck in apology, telling his audience, “There were only ten warriors, and over a score of travelers. So we sent the travelers ahead with two of the warriors, while the rest of us remained to ward off the Orcs from following the others –” the Silvan trailed off, this time truly submerged in memory. It had been his first real skirmish outside of the training grounds, and though a seasoned warrior now, then he had been scared witless.

“Which is how we came to know that Legolas and his warriors needed aid,” Elladan explained to the Ranger. “The Wood-Elves came crashing through our campsite on their way into the foothills, not knowing we were there until they nearly ran over us.”

“They intended to hide in the trees until the rest of us came to collect them,” the Silvan said, stroking the horse’s mane absently as he tried to recall the event. “They were mostly families with Elflings, not warriors.” The image of the frightened young Elves clinging to their Naneths came to the Prince’s mind, and how afraid he had been that they would not be able to repel the Orcs, that these Elflings might lose a parent as he had lost his Naneth. “The Orcs outnumbered us greatly but we held our ground, slaying most of them before they could cross the river to reach us.”

“Meanwhile, however,” Elrohir told his human brother, shifting Tirn before him on the horse as he spoke, “the Elves at our campsite told us of the Orcs, and while they went on to the forest at the foothills of the mountains, we rode to the river to find the battle.”

“But the battle came to us ere we could reach it.” With an indulgent smile at the Wood-Elf, Elrohir stated succinctly, “And then we saved Legolas from certain death. End of story.”

Legolas thought of how he had helped one of the wounded warriors in escaping: with no other recourse, they had run from the river when the Orcs had rallied, nearly surrounding the few woodland warriors. “Our commander bid us to flee, to break free of the encircling Orcs. We separated, a few of us bearing the wounded. I ran with one of the wounded warriors to find safety in the trees.”

“Wood-Elves and their trees,” the elder Noldo teased, winking at the Prince knowingly. “When Elrohir and I heard the approaching Orcs, we waited for them to grow closer, our bows at ready. As they came through the thicket, we began letting our arrows fly.”

The younger twin gave a loud grunt. “You mean you let _your_ arrow fly, Elladan. You let it fly right into Legolas.”

“He moved so loudly I was certain he was an Orc!” the elder twin protested. “And I apologized to Legolas a hundred times that night.”

“I was carrying a wounded Elf, Elladan, and running for our lives! I couldn’t be expected to tread quietly, especially wading through the thorn bushes and with a herd of Orc behind me.” The twins and Aragorn laughed at his mock irritation, and the Prince could not retain a straight face; he smiled, explaining to the Ranger, “His arrow nearly lodged in my cheek, but luckily, Elladan’s aim is terrible.” The Prince pointed to his right shoulder, just by his neck, where the arrow had hit him. “And when I thought the situation could not become any worse, the Orcs caught up to us. Where the rest of the warriors were, I did not know at the time, but I later learned that they had tried to lead the Orcs away from our fellow Elves in the trees.”

“Which is what I advised Legolas to do,” Elrohir said, sounding proud of himself. “The Orcs following Legolas did not know he was not alone, so we helped him deposit his wounded warrior in a tree and then told him to run. The ridge we were camped on gave us a perfect advantage, so we told him to lead them that way.”

“And so I ran with an arrow in my shoulder, listening to your brothers only because they were older and I was too frightened to know what else to do. Had I more sense at the time, I believe I would have declined Elrohir’s plan and stayed in the trees.”

From behind them, at the rear of their odd procession, Jalian asked Legolas, who had nearly forgotten the man was with them, “You took _Elrohir’s_ advice?”

The Prince hesitated to answer: hearing the mercenary tease the younger twin was peculiar to him, but Elrohir called from the front with amusement in his voice, “You learn quickly, Jalian. However, my advice _worked_ , and that is all that matters! The Orcs followed Legolas as he ran, pretending to be more injured than he was, I might add, and Elladan and I picked them off one by one from the ridge above them.”

“Although I do recall that not all of the Orcs fell by your arrows, Elrohir, and I was frightened out of my mind to be dodging both the arrows of the Orcs and those that you and Elladan were releasing. One Orc nearly had me. I was out of arrows and with an arrowhead stuck in my shoulder I could barely keep hold of my sword to fend him off.” The Silvan shifted himself, stretching his wounded leg out to relieve the cramping. “That was my first and only encounter with your brothers, save for now. When the Orcs chasing me were killed, the other warriors came to the forest to find our brethren, but instead found their Prince wounded by a Noldo's arrow,” Legolas concluded, seeing that the Ranger was smiling gleefully at his story. “Elladan and Elrohir had the good sense to travel onwards that night, and good riddance. Your brothers are mad, and I repeat, Strider, that you must be stout at heart to have lived so long as their brother.”

Nodding his head vigorously, the Ranger agreed, “It is luck that I have lived this long. But I hope you do not have ill opinions of all Imladrian Elves,” Aragorn told the Silvan. “They are not all as vexing as my brothers.”

Elladan harrumphed, flicking a bug off his sleeve and at the Ranger. “Although they all now have ill opinions of you, Estel. We won’t be the only ones looking for revenge. All of Imladris will have your hide when you return.”

The Ranger sneered at Elladan’s admonition and his reminder of the human’s prank, but Legolas, desiring to hear the human’s story before he was no longer able to pay attention or Strider could avoid the topic again, interrupted the ensuing argument. “Now, Estel,” the Prince demanded with a smirk, “tell me what trouble you have wrought in Imladris.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elladan obviously enjoyed the slight squirm the Ranger made, twisting in his saddle uncomfortably as Legolas gave the human an impatient look and Estel floundered to explain. “It was not much trouble,” the human healer said, flushing slightly as Elrohir, still riding ahead of them, snorted his disagreement.

He rubbed his feverish forehead, willing the headache there to abate as he thought of some way to avoid telling of his mischief. Suddenly, though, the Ranger laughed, holding his aching belly and chest when his laughter stretched them as he thought of what he had done. _The twins will have their revenge, but it has been well worth it! They will have to think hard to find a better prank._

“You should have heard the twins, Legolas,” Aragorn told the Wood-Elf, “I could hear them screaming even from the courtyard!”

“It is well that you left before we could find you, muindor,” Elladan chided, keeping his horse in pace with the Prince and Ranger’s as they spoke to keep the three abreast of each other, “although your recompense would have been swiftly paid had we found you then.”

“You have given us the time to think of a much better way to repay you,” Elrohir called back to them. “Although what I want to know,” the younger twin said, slowing his horse to let the others catch up to him when he realized how far ahead of his mates he had become, “is how you caught them.”

The elder Noldor twin inserted his own barb, “Estel is one of them, Elrohir! Can you not smell him?”

The twins and Ranger laughed, the latter no less than the former, for Estel had become accustomed to the twins’ taunts. If he weren’t certain that they loved him, he would no doubt have taken exception to their insults.

An amused but exasperated Legolas prompted, “He smells like one of what? Or do you intend to force me into piecing together this tale from your arguing?”

Estel smiled at the Wood-Elf, earning him a smile in return. “Skunks. I convinced a group of Elflings to catch two skunks for me. One for each twin.”

Frowning at the healer inquisitively, Legolas asked, “Why skunks? And however did you convince them to catch them for you?”

“I bribed them with sweets from the kitchens,” the Ranger admitted. _A lot of sweets. I wonder what their parents thought of them returning home that day still reeking of skunk with their pockets full of cakes._ “I taught them how to lay the traps, as had I caught the skunks myself, the twins’ would have caught wind of it.” The Silvan snickered at the Ranger’s unintentional pun, and Estel laughed himself before he continued, “I had them put the skunks in boxes… without hurting them of course,” he assured the Wood-Elf so that the woodland being would not think him so careless in his treatment of the creatures of the forest. “I kept them behind the stables that night, for the next morning I was leaving for the south.” Aragorn chuckled at the memory of trying ineffectually to hide the awful smell of the animals from the stable staff, all of whom had learnt not to interfere with the twins or Ranger’s pranks, lest they become targets themselves.

“The next morning I awoke very early, collected the skunks, and while Elladan and Elrohir were in the baths, I put a box on each of their beds.” The glare Elladan gave him would have frightened a lesser man, but Aragorn was quite used to them, and merely smiled in return. “I knew that the twins were too curious not to open the boxes immediately upon seeing them. I found father, told him my goodbyes, and when he asked why I did not wait until the twins came down to see me off, the screaming had begun.”

“I suppose it is our own faults,” Elrohir said, turning to face them for the moment it took him to reply glibly, “even though I could smell the skunk through the box, I never thought you would stoop so low, Estel. I thought perhaps you had only doused some favorite item of mine in the smell, and I was compelled to see what you had destroyed! I did not expect a sleeping skunk to wake and then leap out at me!”

The Ranger shrugged his shoulders, and then began chuckling outright when the Silvan began to laugh merrily. “I have never made such quick goodbyes to Ada,” he told the Wood-Elf. “Ah, I wish I could have seen the look on the twins’ faces when their curiosity bested them and they found they had released two very annoyed skunks in their chambers.” Estel chuckled some more, remembering the look his adopted father had given him: the Elven Lord had not been surprised nor had he been pleased, even without knowing what prank Aragorn had pulled – Elrond had only lifted one eyebrow in his usual manner and then instructed the Ranger to ride quickly before the twins caught up to him.

“What you do not know, Estel, is that those two skunks escaped from our rooms. The smell still lingers. They ran rampant through the house for days, spraying any unfortunate Elf who happened upon them!”

“Including Erestor,” the elder twin added to his younger twin’s outraged story. “He is not pleased with you. One of the skunks had become lost in his study, and when he went to fetch a report for Ada —”

“— he was sprayed not once, but three times! The skunk had him cornered with his back against the wall and between two shelves for half an hour before his aide found him," the younger twin continued.

Because he was far away from Erestor, his father, and the other Elves in Imladris, the twins’ elucidation of the aftermath of his prank did not bother him in the least, and he laughed all the more at the thought of the stately Lord Erestor trapped in his study by a skunk.

“Truly, Strider,” the Wood-Elf asked, the Silvan as happy and carefree as the Ranger had yet to see him, “I hope not to be around when the twins’ see their revenge come to fruition.”

Ignoring the portentous undercurrent of the Prince’s cheerful statement, Aragorn vowed of himself in like tone, maintaining his cheer in thankful recognition of the bright smile the fading Silvan held, “So do I.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Although Legolas had assured him that this section of the forest was less inhabited by spiders, it had been the ‘less’ part of the Wood-Elf’s clarification that had Elrohir worried, especially now that the day was fading and night grew closer. The archer had also claimed, judging by the looming mountain range of the forest in the distance, that soon they would cross the Old Forest Road, and perhaps more importantly, a small lake. As they had used the last of their water an hour ago, Elrohir did not even consider stopping their progress towards said lake. They needed the water, and from the looks of the Prince, Ranger, and Elladan, they could all use a bath, not just for their appearances, but also for their well-being and to prevent infection of the numerous injuries Elrohir had not been able to tend properly without sufficient water.

Elrohir was convinced that he had pushed his brothers and the Prince beyond what might normally be safe; however, his desire to be out of the dark and unwelcoming forest around him was exacerbated by the fact that no matter how hard he tried, he could not hold Tirn comfortably in his lap, keep a vigilant watch of the surrounding environment, and observe the condition of his brothers and friends simultaneously. The effort was wearing thin his patience, and though he tried to enjoy Elladan and Estel’s bickering over the details of some mischief that had occurred when Aragorn was but a child, their arguing grated his nerves.

_At least they feel like bickering,_ he thought of his brothers, biting his tongue to keep from shouting at them to be quieter, and hopefully then, less distracting.

As they rode through a part of the woods where the trees’ trunks were so close that the travelers were forced to ride single file lest they be separated for long stretches of time, Elrohir increased his grip on Tirn’s chin to press the sentry’s head to his shoulder, hoping to keep the sentry’s neck wound from being disturbed. The uncertain steps of his usually graceful horse on the exposed and treacherous roots underneath jostled Elrohir in his seat, and thus the sentry in his. Tirn’s leg bumped into the tree beside them, and the last of Elrohir’s patience threatened to disappear with the sunlight.

The first part of their travels had been spent in silence until Aragorn had asked Legolas of his first meeting with the twins, and since then the Ranger and Elladan had not stopped arguing. Legolas had long ago ceased trying to maintain any awareness of the brothers’ conversation, for the Prince exerted most of his attention on trying to remain on his horse. The Wood-Elf had not complained, but Elrohir could see that he was suffering. _We must break soon. They will not last much longer riding._ He had offered to stop, to allow the others the rest that they obviously needed that afternoon, but his offer had been summarily declined: each of the travelers had their own reasons for wishing to reach the Elven-King’s halls as soon as possible, and none had been willing to waste the daylight.

He shifted the sentry sitting before him on his horse and complained silently to Tirn, _I am sure you felt much the same irritation when we rode down the banks of the river. Elladan and I did not alleviate your anxiety with our bickering then, as my brothers are only worsening my stress now._ Nudging the sentry’s splinted leg so that the timbers tied tightly Tirn’s thigh did not gouge his own thigh, the younger Noldo rested his eyes for a moment.

_I would that we had not treated you so unkindly when first we met,_ he thought as if the sentry before him could hear. _I wish we had asked for your help rather than demanded it._ It was difficult for Elrohir to imagine the sentry angry with him. He had known Tirn less than a week, much less than it would take for any immortal to feel he or she truly knew another, but somehow the younger twin surmised that the sentry held no grudge against either he or his twin. _I wish more than anything that you would wake, Tirn._

Elrohir’s horse slowed to a stop: the younger Noldo opened his eyes. They had arrived at a break in the line of trees at the forest’s edge, and just ahead of them lay the Old Forest Road.

“The lake lays not far from here, Elrohir. We should continue, even if we do not reach the lake tonight. It is not safe to camp near the road,” the Wood-Elf called to him.

Elladan’s horse came to a halt beside him. “Legolas says Eryn Galen is no more than four days ride from here. Three if we keep the pace we have traveled today.” His elder brother watched him, not needing Elrohir to say anything for him to know that his twin was exhausted. “One day at a time, muindor. Just a little further and we will camp.”

The younger Noldo knew that despite his sleepless last night and trying day, more work awaited him once they camped. _I’ve wounds to tend, and water to fetch, and food to obtain, and I will find no rest tonight, either._ Elrohir thought to Tirn, _Just three more days, your Prince says._ He sighed, hefting the sentry closer to him and watching Legolas as he led them over the road. _Let us reach Eryn Galen soon – all of us, Tirn. Please._

  
  


 


	39. Chapter 39

_If we do not arrive at this lake…_ a cranky Elladan thought, and then stopped his annoyed thinking with an amused frown as the very lake over which he grumbled came into view. It was a small lake, truly, but the water was fresh and no algae covered its surface, which glimmered orange in the setting sun’s reflection. The range of the Mirkwood Mountains loomed in the distance, and it was from them that a small river of water, less the breadth than that of even the Enchanted River, flowed into the cerulean lake. _This will be perfect._ Ringed with grass, the water was tempting Elladan into a swim. He knew he smelled of horses and blood, his clothes were filthy, and his hair tangled. He rolled his head around on his neck, stretching the tense muscles there in anticipation. _Water to drink, and a good soak!_

“At last!” The Ranger reined his horse into a stop along the smaller trees as the forest thinned into small brush and plants before it became the thick, tall green grass around the lake. Elladan suddenly wished to lie in that grass under the stars. “I was beginning to think that this lake was a figment of your imagination, Legolas,” Estel suggested with a grin.

The Wood-Elf smiled wanly. “I am glad it is not. I was beginning to doubt this myself. I cannot remember, but I believe I was an Elfling last I saw it.”

Elladan was the first to dismount, hopping off his horse with an excited smile; he immediately went to his twin, helping Elrohir to slide Tirn from off the horse and safely into the elder Noldo’s arms. As his younger twin groaned, dropping from his horse with less ease than his elder twin had, Elladan carried Tirn to the lake quickly, laying him on the verdant shore. His broken collarbone and the surrounding swollen tissue protested his carrying the sentry, but this pain the Noldo hardly noticed, as excited as he was at the beauty of the lake and to be off his horse. _This is a fine place to spend the night._

With Elrohir’s help, Aragorn and Legolas dismounted, also, and the three followed Elladan to the water’s edge. Leading the tethered horses to the shore, Jalian let the tired equines drink from the lake, kneeling down beside them to cup the water in his hands and drinking from them with sloppy sounds. Elladan laughed, joining the merchant. “We have not been without water for long, but I find myself thirstier just looking at this lake,” he told the human, helping himself to the clear, cool liquid.

Jalian rubbed some of the water in his hands over his face, and then his face dry with his dirty tunic. “If we fill all those flasks we collected, we ought’ve enough water to last us until Mirkwood.”

“Let me help you, Le –” Something fell to the ground with a heavy thud, and both mercenary and elder twin looked behind where they knelt to see that Legolas had not waited for Elrohir to help him, and had plopped to the grass. From the droop of the Silvan’s shoulders and his heavy lids, the younger Elf was depleted.

Elrohir, who had been trying to hurry to aid the Prince, huffed in exasperation, and instead turned to the Ranger to be of aid to him, but the human was eying their environment and had no intention of sitting.

“I think I will stretch my legs,” Aragorn told them before taking off through the grass. Walking the edge of the lake, the Ranger stopped to inspect the ground, kneeling to ascertain whether an animal, Elf, human, or less savory creature had recently visited the water.

 _He is checking for tracks,_ Elladan decided, wiping his wet hands on his breeches as he sat back in the grass. He was pleased to see that even in his injured state his younger brother had not forsaken his instincts to assure his and his companions’ safety. _It is well he thought to do so, for none of us are as able as he is in this skill._

“What’re we doin’ first?” the mercenary asked Elrohir, looking to the twin for guidance.

The younger twin had decided to sit himself, and he then lay back, crossing his arms under his head. “Fill the flasks. Start a fire. Find something for dinner. Take a –”

“I, for one, would like a bath,” Elladan inserted, interrupting his rambling twin, and stealing unwittingly Elrohir’s next suggestion before he could make it.

“I’ll stay here with this one,” the mercenary offered, pointing to the unconscious Tirn. “And I can build the fire and get together something to eat if the rest of you want a bath.”

 _How thoughtful of him,_ the elder twin noted with no spite. “Thank you, Jalian, but don’t you wish to bathe, also?”

The mercenary looked nervously at the surrounding forest, saying, “Never felt right about being in Mirkwood, ‘specially not when naked.”

Although Jalian’s sentiment was heartfelt, Elladan could not help but laugh. “You needn’t be unclothed to wash away the foul smell, Master Human.” Sputtering for a moment, the mercenary turned his flushed face towards the water and fell silent. _Sweet Eru, now I have offended him._ “I am sorry, Jalian. I meant no insult. I was merely teasing you.”

The mercenary cleared his throat, flashed Elladan a smile, and then replied, “Nah, no offense taken. I’m sure I smell worse’na Orc.” He glanced at the Silvan sitting in a subdued manner next to Elrohir, “Perhaps I’ll take a bath later, when everyone else is done.”

 _Very thoughtful,_ the Noldo decided upon realizing Jalian’s purpose: the mercenary did not want to make the Silvan uncomfortable with his presence while Legolas bathed.

“I am sure that will be fine.” Picking himself up from the grass, Elladan went to their steeds. He untied from them the multitude of flasks and containers that the mercenary and his twin had collected, telling Elrohir and Jalian, “We should make preparations for the night. The sun is nearly spent. Help me, muindor?” Elrohir nodded and stood, grabbing more emptied flasks.

“I’ll get some firewood,” the mercenary stated, and suddenly everyone’s short reprieve ended, except for the Wood-Elf’s, who did not even seem to detect that the others were bustling about him, but sat watching the water of the lake silently.

The twins walked around the edge of the water, following in the nearly indistinct footsteps of the Ranger as he preceded them, though Estel walked more slowly, taking his time as he made certain their campsite would be safe. _Only three more days,_ the elder twin told himself, watching Aragorn grimace as he rose too quickly from his inspection of a set of tracks. _Three more days and then Aragorn can stop worrying, Legolas can be with his father, and Elrohir can be relieved of us._ Elladan stopped at the influx of water from the small stream, dipping the first flask in the flow of water as it rushed past them and into the lake.

“Tirn’s condition is not worsened, but it is no better,” Elrohir told his twin, filling a flask, also.

“I know, muindor. Perhaps this is a good sign. His body could be recovering, and even though he does not wake, it does not mean he will not awaken when his body is well enough to do so,” the elder Elf told Elrohir, trying to bolster his twin’s flagging good humor. The younger Noldo did not reply but filled the flasks with him, and when finished, they returned to the mercenary, who had been joined by the Ranger.

Elladan dropped his flasks to the ground, asking, “What did you find, Estel? Are there any inhabitants of the forest nearby of which we should be worried?”

“None but deer and other, smaller animals.” Taking up one of the full water skins, the Ranger opened it, pouring the water into his mouth with relish.

“I have just filled that, Ranger,” Elrohir derided, picking up a limb of the firewood the mercenary had collected and tossing it at the human healer. Aragorn caught the branch before it hit him. Expecting his brother to throw the branch back at him, Elrohir pointed his finger at the Ranger, warning, “If you throw that at me, I will throw you in the lake.”

Estel studied the limb, Elrohir, and then the limb again. “That is hardly an effective threat, muindor. I would be happy to throw myself into the lake, if it would save you the trouble.”

“And what of me?” Elladan asked. “I think I’d like to be thrown into the lake, also, Elrohir.”

The younger twin nodded happily. “I wonder if it is possible to throw oneself into the lake. Perhaps we should try, for I believe I could use a bath.” Looking to the darkened sky, the sun had set but a bright moon overhead gave them sufficient light for some night swimming. “Come, Jalian. If you will build the fire, I will move Tirn. We should not camp right next to the lake, so let us make our fire and beds behind the thicket.”

While Elrohir gathered the fallen sentry in his arms, carrying Tirn to where he intended them to spend the night, Jalian gathered his kindling and Aragorn gathered the bags of food and medicines they would need. Legolas did not move, nor did he seem to notice the others’ absence.

Kneeling in front of the Silvan, Elladan asked him, “Would you like to come with us, Legolas?” The Prince did not stir but sat lifelessly on ground, staring at the lake with a vacant gaze. Slowly, so as not to startle the Wood-Elf, the Noldo placed a hand on the Silvan’s shoulder, “Legolas?” The archer lifted his head sluggishly to face Elladan. “Do you wish to bathe with us? We can find you some clean clothing, also.”

Giving the elder Elf a small nod, the Wood-Elf stood with Elladan’s help: the Noldo kept his hand on the Silvan’s arm, walking with him to the lake. _He looks as though he will fall asleep at any second._

“Elladan,” his twin said, taking the archer’s arm in his. “Go see to Aragorn. I will help Legolas.”

The elder Noldo did as his twin asked of him. _A bath at last,_ he thought, untying his tunic eagerly as he walked to where the Ranger stood.

Elladan's hands wavered in their task: Aragorn had unfastened his own tunic and removed the linen over his wounds to bathe, and though Elladan had seen the wounds his brother bore, without the covering of either bandage or tunic and laid bare, the Ranger’s injuries staggered the elder twin as he saw them in their entirety. _We could have lost him,_ he thought again. The healer’s flesh was bruised, the skin reddened with fever and the gruesome, scorched holes in the Ranger’s chest and belly made the Noldo wish Ament were alive just so he could kill the mercenary again. Elladan tore his eyes away from the pitiful sight, thanking the One that the Ranger’s distant Elven heritage would likely aid the human in a faster recovery of which most humans would not have the benefit.

Instead, he focused on the nearby grazing horses, thinking, _Estel will heal. He is too stubborn not to heal._

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Legolas gave up trying to undress himself: Elrohir would take over untying any knot the Prince’s fingers found, or unclasp any button he tried to open.

He did not want to be nude in front of the Noldor or Ranger, not out of fear of them, but of their reaction to his body’s condition. If they looked upon him with the same pity Aragorn had bestowed upon the Prince when first he had realized the Silvan had been ravaged by Ramlin, Legolas was sure he would fade from shame, if not sorrow. Elrohir held onto his arm, standing with the archer, and as nude as he was, also. He did not offer his help: he merely gave it.

Taking a cloth in one hand, the younger Noldo poured into it some oil soap that someone had brought with him, and then helped the Silvan to crouch in the lake’s water. Thankful that his lower body, at least, would be hidden, the Wood-Elf did not protest when the twin began to lather his back, pushing Legolas’ dirtied hair away from his neck to clean the blood there.

“We are like children, Legolas, who have been playing in the mud puddles,” Strider called to him from where Elladan was giving him the same treatment, soaping the Ranger’s back and arms.

“Yes, Aragorn. Very naughty children who have more blood on them than in them,” the elder twin retorted, slapping the cloth against his brother’s head. “Stop moving! You are not getting your chest or stomach wetter than necessary, Estel. You will soak away the scabs there.”

Elrohir laughed with his brothers while Legolas could only smile unthinkingly his appreciation of the brothers’ jollity. The younger twin moved on to washing the submissive Silvan’s arms, careful not to scrub too hard. He enjoyed the sensation of the water, of being clean of the blood and dirt, of being cared for, but still, the Wood-Elf trembled under the Noldo’s touch. _Stop it,_ he told himself. _It is only Elrohir._

When the younger twin began to wash his chest, it seemed that he noticed the Prince’s discomfort, for he handed Legolas the cloth wordlessly. His tremors stopped, and the archer began to wash himself perfunctorily until Elrohir grabbed his arm, ceasing the Wood-Elf’s harsh swipes across his abdomen. “More caution, Legolas, _please._ ”

He sat on the rocks under him, washing himself under the vigilant gaze of the younger Noldo, who had begun to clean himself, also. With measured, slow strokes of the cloth, the Prince cleaned his skin, his thoughts only of the water. The depths in the center of the lake called to him: he wanted to be out there, and once he was done washing, he moved instinctively to reach them.

“Let me wash your hair,” Elrohir prompted, grabbing the Wood-Elf's arm and pulling Legolas towards him. “Lay back.”

The Noldo placed a hand behind the Silvan’s neck and drew the Wood-Elf down to the water, wetting the archer’s head before soaping his scalp, which was sore from where Ramlin had yanked his long hair. His hair was also filthy with blood and the dirt from where he had been entombed in the fallen roof of the cave. All this washed away under Elrohir’s gentle hands, combing through his wet hair. It hurt, but no more than the rest of his body, and so he let the Noldo continue, if only so that the twin would leave him so that he could sate this desire to swim out to the center of the lake.

“I am done, Legolas,” Elrohir told him, helping the Prince to sit up in the water once more.

“I wish to swim,” he told Elrohir, and was surprised at how weak his voice sounded.

Elrohir frowned, wiping his own washed and sodden hair out of his face. “You should not soak in the water, Legolas.”

More than meager velleity, the Silvan’s longing to feel the cold liquid surrounding him would not be dissuaded. “I want to bathe, Elrohir, not merely sit in the water.”

Pursing his lips in disapproval, the younger twin finally nodded his head, but warned, “Not for long, Legolas.”

The Silvan waded further into the lake, the rocks and silt under his feet making for a treacherous journey as he walked his way into the depths. He knew that the others watched to see that he would not drown himself: he did not bother to look to confirm this, but he could feel the others’ eyes on him. Legolas was tired, more exhausted than he had ever been, and his entire body throbbed, some places more than others, yes, but even places he was sure he had not injured were sore. He was too tired to think, too tired to breathe, and too tired to care.

In the middle of the body of water, the Silvan could still stand on the bottom of the lake and the liquid barely reached his upper chest. _This water seemed much deeper when I was young,_ he thought, bending his knees so that he could submerge completely, dunking his head under the surface. The Noldo had already helped him bathe, but the Wood-Elf wanted more than that. He wanted to be engulfed in the water.

Most of all, the Silvan wanted to float away, to drift in the current until it carried his broken body away from the ever present sorrow weighing him down, pulling him under. But this was a lake, not a river, and its gentle lapping of the grassy shore was its only movement. It could not take him where he sought to go, a place he had never been. He did not understand the meaning behind his longing to drift away with the water and did not trouble to ponder upon it. Legolas lay himself out in the lake, letting his body float where it would. He did not sink to the bottom, but nor did he crest the gentle waves above head.

“Legolas! Let us get dressed and have something to eat!”

Through the inches of clear water overhead, the Prince heard the Ranger’s apprehensive call. He did not wish to rise from the welcoming, cold liquid surrounding him, where the moonlight undulated on the surface above him with each slight movement of his body, and the dark of the depths under pushed the scant light askew. The lake buoyed him lovingly between the thick, whelming mantles of water above and below, the coldness seeping into his flesh: he was caught between them.

“Legolas!”

Sighing under the water, the Wood-Elf spared only the moment it took as the last air in his lungs slipped upwards in small bubbles, breaking through the water, and joining the sky overhead wavering in his vision, before he followed the bubbles. The Elf swam up the short distance to the surface of the lake, planting his feet firmly on the ground beneath him as he stood. Immediately, his lungs sought the air he had deprived them, and the force of his quick inhale set him into a fit of coughing.

“Valar, Legolas, I thought you had decided to become a fish,” Elrohir teased, his voice coming closer to Legolas than he expected. In trying to whirl around in the water to find the Noldo, Legolas slipped on the rocks beneath foot, and almost fell backwards – the younger twin caught the Prince’s arm. “Careful,” he intoned, hefting the Wood-Elf back to his feet, “we can’t have you drowning when we’re so close to Eryn Galen, can we? I would hate to report to your father that you survived being kidnapped only to drown while bathing.”

Legolas tried to smile, but even the muscles of his face did not wish to cooperate: the Noldo stared at him, his own teasing grin diminished. “Come. Sit with me on the bank, and I will see to your wounds.” Strider and Elladan sat there already; the elder Noldo and human both wore their breeches, and Elladan was winding bandaging around the human’s upper arm.

The last thing the Wood-Elf wanted was to sit naked on the grass with the Ranger and two Noldor, but he didn’t have the strength to argue, and so allowed the younger twin to lead him out of the water and to the shore. “Sit here, Legolas,” Elrohir prompted, pointing to where his satchel of herbs and clean leggings were placed.

 _Those belong to Tirn,_ the Prince noted absently, the soft, dark green material evincing exactly whose breeches Elrohir had borrowed. Quickly replacing his own breeches, the Noldo sat before Legolas.

The younger twin spread a fresh coat of pasted herbs and then bandaging around the injuries on the Silvan’s wounded thigh, his almost completely closed gouge wounds from the trap in which he had become caught, and some of the more serious cuts on his legs from the broken arrows he had slid across while battling Melfren. “Legolas? Are you well?”

He met the twin’s gaze with some difficulty, his head had begun to pound, and his chest felt tight, as if it were drawing into itself: he tried to nod his head but the Ranger yelped in pain, and the Silvan jumped in surprise.

“Damn it, Elladan. You’re taking skin off!”

Legolas focused his weary eyes on the Ranger and elder Noldo sitting nearby. Elladan was using his dagger to ladle a tincture onto Strider’s chest, where the flesh had been burnt. Slightly digging his blade’s point into the human’s wound, he argued, “This is the alternative, Estel, so do not complain. What we should have done is cut away the burnt skin and sew the flesh together, but we do not have the herbs to render you into a deep enough unconsciousness that you would not feel it.”

The Ranger looked properly horrified at this suggestion, but jested, “If you keep prodding at it as you are, I will fall unconscious from the pain, anyway.”

“Legolas?” Again, the younger twin was speaking to him. The Prince could not understand what the Noldo wanted, but Elrohir eyed him nervously and shifted on his knees before the Wood-Elf. “Never mind,” Elrohir told him with a sad smile, rummaging through his satchel and bringing out a roll of linen. “Once I have wrapped your thigh, we’ll get these breeches on you and then you can sit by the fire. Your skin is freezing.”

True to his word, when Elrohir had tied the linen, he grabbed the leggings he had brought with them, instructing the Silvan, “Let me pull them over your legs, Legolas, and then you can stand to pull them up.” Without waiting for the Prince’s complicity, Elrohir threaded each of the Wood-Elf’s feet through the leggings, and then slowly rolled the breeches, several sizes too large for Legolas, up the archer’s legs. He ignored the Elf’s hands on him, not caring in his exhaustion what the Noldo wished to do to him, as long as in the end Elrohir would let him sleep.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon their returning to the campsite, bathed and mostly clothed, the mercenary had quietly left the area, not stating his reasons for doing so, but no one had asked. Since Elrohir had told them all of Legolas’ decree that the mercenary was pardoned of his culpability in the Wood-Elf’s abduction, they had accepted the mercenary with a modicum of trust. With the Prince’s pardon, none else had the reason to doubt the human, for none else had been harmed by the mercenary other than Legolas.

Elrohir gathered up his satchel and told the Prince, “I’m almost finished. Allow me to see to your other wounds, Legolas, and then I promise I will let you sleep.”

Legolas neither agreed nor argued, and so the Noldo settled down beside him, drying the young Elf’s chest so that he could wrap bandaging around the archer’s bruised, cracked ribs, and thereby cover the long cut on his torso, also. The Silvan was not faring well at all: the dark circles under Legolas’ eyes were so black that the Wood-Elf appeared to have coal smeared around them.

 _He breathes too shallowly,_ the Noldo noticed, wrapping the bandage around the Prince’s upper arm and tying it off quickly. _It is no wonder he has not expelled much blood today: he has not followed Elladan’s advice to cough._ If the archer’s lungs had filled with blood, there was little that Elrohir could do for him, especially as the Silvan refused any herbs to aid his healing other than pastes and oils the Noldor had used externally.

Legolas fell asleep before the Noldo was finished; his head lay forward on his chest as he sat hunched over, his arms lying limply in his lap. Brushing the Silvan’s tangled but clean flaxen hair away from his closed eyes, Elrohir fought the urge to shake the Wood-Elf awake, for he was disturbed to see the Prince so utterly exhausted.

“You must sleep tonight, Elrohir,” his twin told him, kneeling down beside him and speaking in the same tone that his brother had always used on him when trying to order him by way of his being Elrohir’s elder, if only by moments. “You and Jalian sleep, and I will wake one of you for the second watch.” Together they laid the Wood-Elf onto the blanket under him, carefully laying his head on a rolled, empty satchel.

“I will take a watch,” Aragorn offered, unfurling his bedroll onto the grass between the two fading Mirkwood warriors. “Although not the first one, please.”

“No. You will sleep. I will take first watch, Jalian can take second.” Crossing his arms over his chest, the elder twin glared at Elrohir as he laid yet another blanket over Legolas’ sleeping form. Aragorn, not willing to argue overly much, shrugged his shoulders and laid down on his bedroll, smiling at the twins while they glared at one another.

Because he was truly tired, and because he knew he would be needed tomorrow more so than during the night, Elrohir submitted, saying, “Fine, muindor. But wake me should you need me.”

Abruptly, the deafening sound of Jalian’s footsteps as he ran towards the campsite alarmed the brothers: Elrohir jumped up from where he sat, followed shortly by Elladan, who had just settled next to Aragorn to help themselves to the lembas and dried meat the mercenary had laid out for their dinner. Ere the mercenary had entered the clearing, Elrohir and Elladan both had their weapons in hand, which startled Jalian when he burst into the campsite. “What is it, Jalian?”

The mercenary grinned sheepishly at them, and then shook himself, tiny droplets of water flying off his clothing in all directions. “Nothing, mates. Just washed the foul smell away, is all.”

Teasing the human good-naturedly, Elladan told the mercenary, “We thought a band of Orc was on your heels, Jalian!” Snorting, the mercenary and the elder twin began to speak of the coming night and their turns in taking watch over the sleeping companions.

Elrohir, miffed that his twin had won their argument so easily, replaced his weapons on the grass beside the bedroll his adamant twin had laid on the grass. He sat upon it, grabbing a satchel from the nearby pile. The Noldo looked inside, and seeing the goblet was still within, finally laid down to rest.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _At least we will have no grave to dig this morning,_ the Ranger told himself, stretching out carefully as he let himself wake. _We will have more daylight by which to travel, or perhaps we could hunt for some fresh meat._ The healer was hungry for something other than lembas and dried venison. He had been forced to drink enough steeped herbs last night that he facetiously mused, realizing his mouth was parched at the moment, _I have drank more water in the last day than fills the lake, and still I am thirsty._

Even with the careful tending by his brothers, his injuries had gone too long untended, and so the healer’s scorched flesh was burning with fever, his body sweating lightly though the morning air was cool. He could hear the twins speaking in hushed tones across the way, and thinking that they were trying not to rouse him from his slumber, he kept his eyes closed, unable to hear of what they spoke anyway. A soft sniffle awakened him completely.

 _Sweet Eru,_ he decided, _something is wrong. Something has happened._ Aragorn sat up hurriedly, casting aside the blanket he had been using.

He surveyed the campsite, noting that Legolas, Tirn, both twins, and the mercenary were all there. Jalian was tending the horses, glancing occasionally at the twins with worry, while Elladan and Elrohir sat close to each other, facing away from him as they whispered. _Who is crying?_ He listened for a moment, not moving or catching the twins’ attention, to hear a second soft sob coming from his brothers’ direction. Elladan was shaking his head, and he turned to his twin, allowing the Ranger to see that the elder Noldo cried, too, though it was Elrohir who gasped with the each lamenting inhale as he sobbed uncontrollably, quietly, as they spoke. Watching Elladan take his twin in his arms, Aragorn noted that the younger twin’s weeping only seemed to increase, and thought, _Elrohir may be suffering from fatigue. He is overwhelmed with the effort of caring for us all._

Again, the human looked around the clearing, seeing that the Wood-Elves were both as they had been left the night before, neither having moved in the night. The Ranger could contain his inquisitiveness no longer, and queried softly, “Elladan?”

The elder twin did not loosen his embrace of his twin as he addressed the Ranger, nor did his eyes meet the Ranger’s as he tilted his head in Estel’s direction. “I am sorry, Estel.”

The healer was nearly panicked; he threw his blanket completely off him and prepared to rise, to comfort the weeping Noldor for whatever ailed them. “What is it, muindor?”

“He has passed. His faer is with Mandos now,” Elladan said, finally looking at the young human, his grief-stricken face making the human wish to cry though he could not yet fathom of what the Noldo spoke.

Once more, the Ranger regarded the campsite with a maelstrom of dread whirling in his mind. He asked himself, _Whom does he speak of?_ His eldest brother had returned to comforting his twin, whispering soothingly to the distraught Elrohir: Aragorn warily, unwillingly looked to the Elf beside him. _It cannot be,_ the Ranger wondered, shocked to see confirmed what Elladan had claimed. The noble chest did not rise with breath and the pale visage had grown gray, the bright blue eyes opened but unseeing.

The Wood-Elf was dead.

  
  



	40. Chapter 40

The Ranger felt the sting of tears in his eyes, the hot liquid welling within them as he stared at the Wood-Elf. His blanket and bedroll he ground into the grass with his feet, forgotten in his haste to scramble closer to the pallid Wood-Elf. _He was alive last night,_ the human thought, his mind unable to comprehend the rapid turn of events. _Last night he breathed, he slept, and this morning he is gone._ Aragorn picked up the pallid, cold, and slack hand lying to the Elf’s side. _He will never hold his bow again._ As if to assure himself that the Elda was indeed gone, his faer absent from the body, the human placed a hand on the Wood-Elf’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, and finding none. _He will never again see the halls of Eryn Galen._

“Estel,” the elder twin intonated softly from across the small campsite, interrupting the Ranger’s rambling thinking. Within the Noldo’s voice was the very grief and sorrow that bombarded the Ranger, but inherent in Elladan’s whisper was something more, something that reassured Aragorn as his brothers’ voices had often done for him as a child. “He died carrying out his duty to Eryn Galen,” the Noldo told him, and though this comforted the Ranger, it did not bring the Wood-Elf back, as much as the Ranger wished it would. “His wounds were too great, and his body too injured.”

 _I have never truly thanked him._ _He gave his life for me, and I do not even know him._ “When did this happen?” Aragorn reached out, wiping away the dew that had collected on the lifeless features of the fallen Elda.

Elrohir, who was trying to compose himself, answered as he wiped his own face, cleaning his tears from it on the shoulder of his twin’s tunic where his cheek lay upon it: Elladan did not seem to mind the wetting of his shirt in the least. “Only this morning, only a few hours ago,” the twin told him, extracting himself from his brother’s hold. Climbing to his feet, the Noldo stumbled across the campsite only to fall to his knees behind Aragorn. Resting his forehead against the Ranger’s upper back, Elrohir wrapped his arms around the bewildered human, explaining, “I am sure he felt no pain, muindor. He died in his sleep.”

 _He died suddenly,_ the Ranger thought. _But then, I suppose he has been dying slowly for the last few days._ “He did not wake? He did not speak?”

“No. He did not wake and he did not speak. He merely faded, Estel. His passing was quick,” Elladan told him, adding his own arms to his twin’s in wrapping the Ranger in an embrace to calm Aragorn, though he was too numb to feel much grief just yet. However, they also held their human brother to soothe their own grief, holding tight to the Ranger as if the Wood-Elf’s demise reminded them of Aragorn’s brush with death, or his inevitable mortality. “There was nothing we could have done for him. We have kept him comfortable and tried to aid his body in healing, but the damage was too much for him,” the twin consoled both his brothers.

Pulling away to gaze upon the resting form of the remaining Wood-Elf, who by appearance was faring little better than his deceased compatriot, Elrohir bewailed, “Legolas cannot endure more sorrow. I would that we did not have to tell him.”

 _Sweet Nienna,_ the human prayed, _let the Prince’s grief not take him with this new tragedy. Tirn’s death may be the death of Legolas, as well._

“Not like he wouldn’t notice it,” Jalian offered from where he was tending the horses, and then grimaced at how callous his words sounded. “I mean…”

“We know what you mean, Jalian,” the Ranger told him, offering the mercenary a pathetic smile. “We would not keep this from Legolas, even should it send him into despair.” The mercenary was obviously unsettled by the sentry’s death, and only nodded, continuing his tending to the morning chores. Jalian was responsible for Tirn’s demise, at least in part, and Aragorn could see that the mercenary did not know how to react to the grieving Noldor. “Legolas is strong, he will survive this, also,” he assured the Elves and mercenary, not certain that he believed his own assertion.

“We should wake him now.” Scooting along the grass to where the Silvan still lay, sleeping deeply, though perhaps not peacefully, Elladan sighed, looking to his two brothers. “We will need to bury Tirn quickly, for we will need to press hard to journey to Eryn Galen.” The elder twin did not need to explain why this was so, for they all held the same need to be free of the tainted forest, and to take the Prince home. Shaking the Wood-Elf gently by his arm, the elder Noldo told them, his worried gaze remaining on the slumbering Silvan for any signs of awakening, “His skin is cold.”

“It was so last night, also,” Elrohir told his twin, watching the Prince as Elladan continued his gentle shaking. The archer woke slowly, first turning away from the Noldo who woke him, shifting his arm away from Elladan’s reach, but the elder twin was insistent, and finally the Silvan woke.

Legolas opened his eyes: he seemed unable to focus them and he blinked rapidly, squeezing them shut tightly as he asked with a beatific, innocent grin, “It is morning, Elladan?” Elladan tried to smile back at the Prince, but the perceptive Wood-Elf noticed this less than warm welcome, for he struggled to sit, asking as he did so, “What is wrong?”

None of them spoke, for none of them wished to be the harbinger of this new tragedy for the Prince to endure. They need not have bothered, and their hesitance only allowed the Silvan to see the calamity for himself. His searching blue eyes falling upon his sentry, Legolas’ friendly and somewhat refreshed smile twisted into a brief expression of pain before it became unreadable, though Estel was certain this anguish was not from the Silvan's many wounds.

“When did he die?” the failing Elda asked. Legolas rose to his knees, walking upon them the short distance to where his sentry lay on the ground.

“Early in the morning, Legolas,” Aragorn told him, repeating what the twins had explained to him only moments ago.

Legolas looked up to the cloudless sky, brightening with the first fiery hint of the sunrise. “He did not wake?” The toneless question, a repetition of Aragorn's own query, unnerved the Ranger, who had expected more show of grief from the Prince than this.

“No. He said nothing, and he did not truly wake,” Elrohir explicated to the Wood-Elf, laying a hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “He opened his eyes, and then he was gone. We could not help him. Namo will guide him to his forefathers; he will see that Tirn is greeted by his family.”

The Wood-Elf nodded, seemingly pleased by this explanation. Looking up again, the Silvan leant forward, placing his head in the air above the sentry’s, though he looked at the sky, judging something that was not clear to Aragorn, though it must have been to Elladan, for he told the Prince with an understanding, albeit sad smile, “I am sure that the stars were the last he saw of Arda.”

Legolas returned the smile and resumed his upright position, nodding again. The three brothers sat in silence for a while, waiting with dread for the archer’s reaction to Tirn’s death to manifest, but no reaction was forthcoming, and eventually Jalian drifted to them, bringing with him dried meat and the last of the soggy bread he had brought with him.

They ate quickly and without joy, not speaking as they broke their fast sitting around the dead Wood-Elf. As he tore the dried meat, pulling it apart with slow, methodical motions, the Ranger would occasionally place one strip into his mouth, chewing it thoroughly before forcing himself to eat another. He did not hunger: the macabre situation of eating while the sentry, who could no longer taste meat or bread, or the fresh water they shared between them, ruined whatever appetite he held.

“Please, Legolas. Eat something.”

Aragorn lifted his head from where he was breaking his bread studiously into crumbs, only to meet the deadened gaze of Legolas, who did not appear to be looking at him at all, but through him, to where the lake lay beyond. Without responding, the Wood-Elf merely pushed at the hand offering him bread.

“You need nourishment to heal. We need your help, Legolas. Eat.”

The Wood-Elf did not try to deny this, nor did he take the bread when Elladan tried to shove it into his hand. The bread rolled out of the archer’s lax fingers and along the Silvan’s leg before it hit the ground, landing in the grass. Elladan picked it up with a frown but did not try again. Instead, he handed Legolas the water when it was passed to him. This, at least, the Prince partook of, and drained the liquid in a single swallow.

Shaking the emptied bladder, the Wood-Elf smiled vacantly, saying, “I will get another one.”

“No need, I’ll get another one,” Jalian offered quickly, hopping up to fetch another flask for their meal: in addition to a filled flask, the mercenary also brought with him Meika’s spade. After handing Elrohir the water skin, he asked them apologetically, “Where do you want to bury ‘im? Might as well start digging.”

“I would that we could take him to Eryn Galen, so that he could have a proper warrior’s feast,” the Prince spoke up, but conceded with another empty grin, “but he would not want to slow us down.”

Legolas finally looked away from the lake behind the Ranger to gaze around the campsite, his head and torso moving sluggishly, and his body even more so when he tried to stand.

Immediately, the helpful, guilt-ridden mercenary was at the Silvan’s side, holding Legolas' elbow to keep him balanced: not releasing the Prince’s arm, Jalian moved with the Wood-Elf across the clearing, pausing each time Legolas did – the archer placed a hand on several trees, tilting his head to the side as he listened. If Legolas was at all discomfited to have Jalian so near, he did not show it.

 _He is finding an appropriate place for his fellow Wood-Elf’s grave,_ the Ranger deciphered with little surprise, aware that the Wood-Elves were particular about such things. Estel left the remnants of his meal for the ants. Elladan and Elrohir had finished, also, and they began packing away that which they didn’t need, though the younger twin left out the herbs and other healing supplies. He sat beside Aragorn, giving the Ranger a brief and humorless smile before he began treating the human’s wounds.

“Here,” the Prince finally decided, calling to them from where he and the mercenary stood beside a beautiful weeping beech, small in comparison to the other trees around it. Standing straight up in a single column of thick trunk that divided into two thinner boughs, the purple-leafed tree cascaded into long, hanging branches that nearly touched the ground. “This one is young yet, and still has much growing.” Yanking free his arm from the mercenary’s grasp, Legolas laid his other hand on the limb he held and laughed hoarsely. “Tirn kept me safe while I grew,” the Silvan told the tree, “I am certain he will do the same for you.”

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When all wounds were tended and they were otherwise prepared to depart, Elrohir and Elladan readied the sentry’s body, washing him the best they could, given that they had not the time to grieve for the sentry before performing this harrowing task. Rubbing his eyes vigorously, the younger twin complained, speaking to his tears as he thought, _Could you not let me finish?_ Using his own brush, the younger twin began braiding Tirn’s hair in the manner of the Mirkwood warriors, hoping he was not making a mockery of it. _Legolas should be doing this,_ Elrohir thought, looking to the Silvan in question. _I will never make them look right._ He realized that such a thing hardly mattered, at least not to Tirn, and for the rest of them, it was well enough to have the sentry buried so that they could move on, making their way to Mirkwood as quickly as possible.

It was important to the Wood-Elf that the sentry was as close to the roots as possible, and so Legolas had crawled under the weeping branches to clear a spot for them to dig, and he held back the thin, leaf-laden limbs as they removed the soil. Once that part of the trench was dug, the Prince’s help in holding the limbs was not needed, and they left the Silvan to his own devices. Although Elrohir had tried to obtain the Silvan’s aid in preparing the sentry’s body, the injured Wood-Elf had become despondent in helping them, and now, despite their attempts to gain his attention, to try to coerce him into moving whether it was to help them or not, the Prince would not respond. He remained motionless, sitting beside them but staring past where the two humans took turns digging the trench for the sentry’s body: he could not be certain, but Elrohir thought the Wood-Elf watched the lake through the spaces between the thin shrubs, which barred him from a full view of the placid water. Given the Silvan’s odd behavior the night before, the younger twin thought to himself, _We will need to ride hard and swift to Eryn Galen. He is on the verge of fading, of this I am sure._

“What’s this?” Elladan asked, leaning down to inspect the Wood-Elf’s hair. Elrohir wiped at the stream of tears running freely down his face so that he could clearly see of what his brother spoke: tied in the long locks at the base of Tirn’s neck, fastened to the blond hair in a knot, was a golden medallion on a simple cord.

“Oh, Valar,” Elrohir wept, taking the medallion from Elladan and fingering the cool, smooth object. _I had forgotten this. He must have tied this here when he and Legolas switched clothing, so as not to lose it or let it be found by Ament._

Elrohir’s renewed crying had attracted the others, save for Legolas, who still did not move. Kneeling beside the twin, the Ranger, panting from his exertion in digging, asked with a huff, “What is it?” Aragorn’s fever was becoming worse; his guilty and drawn countenance was flushed with both the exertion of helping Jalian dig the grave and the infection running through his body.

“It is Tirn’s medallion,” he said, trying to untangle the necklace from the sentry’s hair. His fingers fumbled with the golden hair and thin cord. Unable to see as his weeping increased, the overwhelmed Noldo cried out in frustration and distress, leaving the medallion as it was. “I cannot get it loose.”

Elrohir broke: the trauma of it became too much for him, and he sat heavily on the ground in an undignified heap, crossing his arms over his head as if trying to block out the sight of the dead Wood-Elf’s body and the fading Prince’s broken stare. “I am sorry,” the twin cried out, not sure to whom his apology was given. It broke his twin, also, to see his brother so upset, and Elladan moved quickly over the sentry to sit beside his brother, wrapping his arms tightly around Elrohir from behind to comfort him again. The trauma of the past week’s events, the Ranger’s feverish confusion as he tried to untie the medallion, the deceased sentry, the human corpses they had left to rot in the forest – all of these threatened Elrohir’s already precarious check on his grief.

But that which broke Elrohir the most was Legolas, whose desolation the compassionate Noldo could feel, who looked much like their mother, his eyes lifeless and dull as he finally moved to sit near them, his superficial interest in their conversation bringing him close to Elrohir. The odd reaction to the sentry’s death this morning, the seemingly accepting demeanor the Silvan had taken, was now replaced with an utter hopelessness that exuded from the Prince in almost tangible waves. It was familiar to the younger twin for he had experienced this firsthand when connected to the Prince, when he had seen Ament’s death, and he could feel it now as if it were his own.

Elrohir watched Estel struggle to untie the medallion, the golden coin in which was carved a simple leaf: the promise behind this emblem, the oath Tirn had made to find the Prince and bring him home, and the sudden appearance of it now, finally shattered the last of Elrohir’s resolve, and he wept unabashedly into his twin’s tunic.

In a voice broken with pain, the slight sound no louder than the soft rush of water from the brook in the distance, Legolas peered over his dead sentry, asking, “What is it?”

 _We will not be able to save him, either. We have been able to do nothing but watch them die._ Though Legolas’ body was mending, his soul had yet to begin healing – this new wound would kill the Prince, Elrohir knew.

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Aragorn eventually tired of the ineffectual effort to untangle the knot, and instead chose to cut the knot free, releasing the medallion from the sentry’s hair along with a golden lock of it. Inspecting the simple piece of jewelry, the Ranger appeared surprised when Legolas’ hand reached out for it. Without hesitation, he gave it to the Prince.

Coughing a short, harsh bark as his failing lungs tried to find the air for him to speak, the Wood-Elf asked, “This is the medallion he flipped to decide which way to turn? To decide which way to go to find me?”

Elladan nodded, holding Elrohir’s head to his unhurt shoulder with his cheek, where the younger twin continued to weep without shame at the loss of their friend and the grief that the sentry’s death caused them all. “That is what he told us when we met him. For fate’s path,” the Noldo reminded them, his own tears blending with his brother’s dark hair that lay against his cheek, “instead of reason’s guidance.”

The Wood-Elf merely nodded, holding the medallion in the palm of his hand for several moments. He picked it up gingerly with his other hand and suddenly smiled; he gripped the cord in both hands, looping it over his head and around his neck. The feeling of the cool gold and the scratchy sensation of the golden hair against his throat calmed the Silvan, and he proclaimed, “It is well he choose to follow the toss of a coin rather than reason. There has been little reason in the mercenaries’ scheme, or in the ruin of it.”

With that, Legolas closed his eyes, and laying his hand on the weeping beech tree next to him, which was grieving for Tirn as well, the Prince let the sea of grief wash over him, relaxing into the comfortable, constant sensation of despair, letting the waves of guilt and regret break against him. Soon he was lost in the gray grief, as lost as he had been in the forest as a child or in the hands of the mercenaries: he slipped away to a place where no one could find him, for the only one who could have hoped to do so was lost himself.

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Elladan forced his twin into sitting up gently: using the sleeve of his tunic, he rubbed the dampness off his twin’s face, telling Elrohir, “Let us finish, brother.” The younger twin nodded, taking over wiping his face clean of the shed tears there, while Elladan removed the splints from the sentry’s thigh. Wishing to see the damage done, the wound that had taken the kind Wood-Elf from them, his family, and his Prince, the Noldo unwrapped the bandaging around Tirn’s neck, inspecting the cut there.

 _Such a small cut,_ he mused, surprised to see that the sentry’s neck had not been laid open as he expected. _But he bled too much; he could not recover from this._ He finished the job of braiding Tirn’s hair, not truly expecting Elrohir to aid him. His twin was too far gone in his grief, his empathetic nature feeling the sorrow of them all, in addition to his own.

“Come, Jalian,” the Ranger told his fellow human, grunting as he stood, obviously in pain from his infected burn wounds. “We are almost done, let us finish, also.”

With Tirn’s hair braided and his body prepared, Elladan unfurled the sentry’s cloak, asking of Elrohir, “Help me, muindor.” Gathering himself, the younger Noldo spread the cloth under the Wood-Elf’s body as Elladan slid it under him, laying the sentry on the cloak and then wrapping him within it.

Aragorn came to stand behind them. “The dirt here is rocky; I do not believe we can dig any deeper.”

“It will have to do,” he told the Ranger: as the arm on the side of his broken collarbone was still in a sling, he could not help Elrohir carry the sentry’s body, but Jalian hurried to aid him, and together they laid the sentry in his grave. Elladan called to the Silvan, “Legolas. Do you not wish to say something?”

He watched the Silvan, hoping the Prince would offer a song or some small word, if not for Tirn, then for himself, to show some grief – but Legolas remained staid. Not acknowledging the elder Noldo’s query or even their presence, the living Wood-Elf merely opened his eyes, looking at the others as they placed the sentry in his grave. When he could not take the silence any longer, Elladan began to sing himself, shoveling dirt into the shallow grave with his hands.

The two Noldor and two humans covered the sentry’s body, stopping only to rub at their faces, dirtied by their labor, when their tears overcame them. After several minutes with no sound but those of quiet distress, Elladan decided, _We should leave now._ Although he did not wish to begrudge his grieving brothers and friend their time to mourn, Anor was already high in the sky, and the idea of reaching Mirkwood, of taking the Prince to his father and home, of getting his brothers to safety, solidified his desire to depart.

The lone Wood-Elf sat by the tree, again watching the lake while the others worked, his mind elsewhere. While conscious, Legolas seemed incognizant of what was occurring, and it was not until their task was completed, when Elladan pulled the Prince to his feet for their departure that the silent, sedate Prince gave any indication he was aware of the others’ presence at all. Legolas began to weep calmly, his body shuddering as he finally released what Elladan knew was only a drop of the well of grief within him. Although he longed to embrace the Wood-Elf, Elladan refrained, afraid that in his state the Prince would feel threatened by this.

It felt wrong for them to leave while the sentry would stay, but Elladan looked at the others, noting their grief and weariness, Aragorn’s fever and the Prince’s despair, and feeling Elrohir’s sadness. Jalian had their horses ready, their belongings packed, and they had nothing left to do but leave. He helped Estel onto his horse, making sure that Elrohir had aided the Prince onto Tirn's horse before mounting his own.

 _Without Tirn, we will make better time,_ he thought, and remembered Legolas’ estimation of Tirn’s desire that they not be burdened with him, that they not be slowed down. Feeling rather guilty at his amusement, the Noldo smiled, for he knew that the kind sentry would not mind that they left while he stayed. _We will meet again one day, Tirn,_ Elladan told the sentry, looking back on the peaceful lake once more before he spurred his horse onwards. They were on their way to Eryn Galen again.

  
  



	41. Chapter 41

The night had long ago set; the sun had ceased her journey across the sky, leaving only the light of the moon to illumine their path through the dark forest, the heavy storm clouds overhead preventing the scant light from dispelling the murky shadows between the trees. Yellow eyes, hideously intelligent and ever watchful, reflected the moonlight in the boughs above them: they disturbed the Noldo’s thinking, and as he passed under a particular set, larger than those that Elladan had seen thus far and ones that trailed his progress under the tree, the elder twin shivered unconsciously. _Legolas has said this is the safest route – if this is the safe way, I wonder what risks the dangerous path holds._ However, he didn’t truly care to find out, for if he had his way, he would not soon be returning to Mirkwood’s unwelcoming southern regions.

Repositioning himself on his horse, the eldest of Elrond’s sons took stock of the Elves and men around him. _We will need to camp soon. Legolas and Aragorn need rest, as do Elrohir and I._ The Wood-Elf’s weeping had ceased long before Elrohir’s, much to Elladan’s dismay for his twin. Elrohir could not stop his silent crying, and would start again when he happened to look at the Ranger or the Prince, both of whom radiated sorrow and pain as their ailing bodies were pushed past their endurance. Elladan had not spoken with his twin, as little had been said by any of the Elves or men as their horses sauntered between the thick trunks of the many trees, but the elder twin knew that his younger half suffered. _As if his own sorrow were not enough, he feels the grief of us all._ Once more he watched his younger brother look over his shoulder to them, and then swipe away the moisture at his eyes. Elladan sighed, expelling the air as easily as he wished he could disperse the sadness clinging to him, and in doing so drew the attention of Aragorn, who rode beside him.

Lifting one eyebrow in silent question, the Ranger inquired wordlessly as to what his Elven brother was thinking, but Elladan gave his human brother a short smile and shook his head. He would not burden the already troubled Ranger with his worries over Elrohir: Aragorn had enough on his shoulders, or so it seemed to Elladan, as he perceived that Estel was troubled with the guilt of losing Tirn, and the possibility of losing Legolas.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, the Ranger apparently did not wish to accept Elladan’s dismissal. Flushed with the febrile heat of wounds gone too long untended, Aragorn returned his attention to the forest around them: even sick, the Ranger listened for danger, his every sense cast outwards in his effort to help keep his brothers and friends protected.

 _We are almost out of herbs capable of helping his fever. And we are almost out of lembas and dried meat._ The elder Elf almost sighed again, but stopped himself lest he attract the attention of the human once more. _Elrohir and I will need to go hunting, for both meat and herbs._

Ahead of them, Jalian stopped his horse, holding back a mesh of twisted kudzu vines that barred their immediate path. They could have merely trod around them, had not the vines seemed to infest this particular portion of the forest, such that no matter which path they chose the party of Elves and men would need traverse under the thick, flowering vines.

 _Jalian is capable of keeping Legolas and Aragorn safe, at least while Elrohir and I hunt._ His estimation of the mercenary’s character had turned about completely: he didn’t understand Jalian’s quickness to change from greedy slave trader to benevolent healer and supporter, but as long as the mercenary gave Elladan no reason to suspect him, the elder twin would not rescind his tentative trust in the human. They needed Jalian: though no Wood-Elf, the mercenary was familiar with Eryn Galen and besides Elrohir, Jalian was the only entirely uninjured person with them.

The Mirkwood Mountains, though much smaller than the Misty Mountains that Elladan was accustomed to, loomed to the northeast. They would not need to travel over the small range but circle around them, and once around them, Legolas had told them that with the mountains behind them, they could travel directly to Eryn Galen. Tonight, however, the Wood-Elf had suggested they try to reach the woody foothills – here they would be safe through the night, as few of the dark creatures of the forest plagued this area, according to Legolas’ knowledge of his homeland. Although they had traveled slowly, they had traveled long, and even with their delay that morning to bury the noble sentry, they had made good time.

 _If we make it to the mountains tonight, we can be in Eryn Galen within two days, if we maintain this pace._ Sighing despite his best attempt not to, Elladan mused, looking to the Wood-Elf in question, _Legolas is as eager to be home as we are to be out of the forest, so I am sure he will lead us along the most direct route._

Legolas was staring at his hands, singing softly under his breath a song that had no words, and this tuneless melody was growing ever softer: both his hands held tightly to the mane of Tirn’s horse, which had not been pleased to be leaving its master behind, dead or not, and had been giving the Prince gentle reprimands all morning. Usually, the mare merely tossed her head in her disgruntlement, but earlier, before they had traversed far from the clearing where Tirn was buried, the normally gentle mare had bucked, nearly throwing Legolas from her back. Had it not been for the Prince’s excellent horsemanship, and perhaps also that the mare hadn’t truly meant to throw the Silvan but only express her displeasure, Legolas could have been injured worse than he already was. For now, Tirn’s mare settled for flicking her tale in agitation as she walked, snorting softly as she grumbled her disappointment. Elladan smiled at her, sharing her displeasure in leaving Tirn by the lake.

At hearing the quieting of the Prince’s singing, Elladan slowed his horse, though their pace was agonizingly slow anyway, so that he would ride beside the archer. “Legolas?” he asked, trying to gain the archer’s attention. The discordant tune that the Prince was humming under his breath abruptly ceased, and Legolas looked up from his hands to Elladan: it became clear in that short moment that the Wood-Elf was near to collapse. His bruised face, while normally pale, had turned the color of the slate roof on the Last Homely House. “Legolas? Are you well?”

The Silvan had no sooner nodded his affirmation than his dull, cobalt blue eyes rolled upwards, his head falling to his chest as his body crumpled forward. _For fuck’s sake,_ Elladan thought, sliding off his horse just as Legolas’ inert and unconscious form began to fall from the mare: Elladan was not quick enough. The Wood-Elf hit the roots underneath the stamping feet of his horse before Elladan could reach him.

“Elrohir!” he called out, wanting to bring their party to a stop. Pushing at the hindquarters of the mare, he nudged the horse quickly out of the way so she would not trample the fallen Prince before he knelt down, lifting the archer from the ground.

Aragorn was soon beside him, his hand snaking between Elladan’s embracing arms to feel for the Silvan’s pulse. “What happened?”

“He is exhausted,” Elladan told his brothers, hefting the young Elda against his chest. “We have pressed too long and too far today. We should find shelter soon.”

“His heart beats too slowly,” the Ranger told them, making room for Elrohir and Jalian as they crowded around the Silvan, as well.

Elladan looked once more to Aragorn, who despite his feverish blush had gone dreadfully pale at the Prince’s condition. _He will not fade like Tirn,_ he longed to tell his human brother, but could hardly believe this himself, and so remained quiet.

Instead, he told the Ranger, “He needs rest, Estel. Let us make for the foothills, as Legolas has suggested, and then we will rest ourselves, as well.”

“Hand him to me, brother,” the younger twin offered, eager, it seemed to Elladan, to have the Wood-Elf near him. Not waiting for a response, Elrohir vaulted onto his horse, his arms already out for the Prince before his elder brother had even the chance to gather the fallen, younger Elda up from the ground again.

 _You will be well, Legolas,_ he told the Prince, carefully removing the Prince’s weapons before accepting Aragorn’s help in carrying the Silvan to their brother.

Elladan feared for Elrohir; as he strapped the Wood-Elf’s weapons to Tirn’s mare, he thought, _You have to be well, Legolas. Elrohir, and most certainly your father, would not survive your death._ Elrohir had formed a deep connection with the Wood-Elf, one that had allowed the younger twin to experience the desolation of Legolas’ fading soul and the lessening of his will to live. It was to this that Elladan attributed Elrohir’s need to have the Prince be well and to be beside him, for should the Wood-Elf’s faer pass to Mandos or he need travel to Valinor, Elrohir’s own empathetic soul would be forever scarred, as it had been when their Naneth had sailed. _Elrohir can hardly endure another Elf leaving him to heal while he still carries the grief._

Boosting the Ranger onto his horse, Elladan pulled himself onto his own, leaving Jalian to tether Tirn’s now riderless mare to the mercenaries’ horses. Watching Elrohir settle the slight Wood-Elf into a position comfortable for riding, Elladan tried to assure them, repeating softly to the shadowy forest, “He only needs rest.”

No one responded, and increasing their pace, the sentient travelers took their unconscious companion closer towards his home.

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“…he is waking, Jalian. Find him some water,” the Ranger told the mercenary.

 _They speak of me,_ the Prince knew, hearing the healer’s command and amused by it. His tongue, feeling too large in his mouth, seemed to be covered in grit, and his dry throat begged for a drink. _Strider has good intuition. He always knows when I am thirsty._ The Wood-Elf smiled, but this quickly turned into a grimace as he opened his eyes, his head aching at the simple action.

“Drink, Legolas.” Feeling the flask of water against his lips, the Silvan sputtered the tepid liquid as it hit his parched mouth, for it tickled his aching throat, and he immediately needed to cough.

Legolas turned his head, feeling the water dribble down his chin as he began to gasp, the air and water flying from his mouth as he tried desperately to breathe. Strider held the Silvan so that he lay on his side, before aiding the Wood-Elf into sitting when Legolas’ coughs had ceased and he attempted to sit for himself.

“I’m sorry, Legolas,” the Ranger told him, helping the archer to sit with his back against the trunk of a tree. “I thought you were thirsty.”

“I am,” the Silvan replied, rubbing his chin with the sleeve of his tunic to clear it of the blood and water, and smiling at the human healer. As another bout of residual, less painful coughs hit him, the Wood-Elf asked, “Where are the others?”

“Elladan and Elrohir have left to find fresh meat, and hopefully more herbs for my fever and your lungs. Jalian is in the cave starting a fire, and we are at the foothills of the mountains.” Strider pressed the flask into Legolas’ hand, telling him, “It is past midnight, and a storm is soon to hit. When the twins return, we will eat and then you can rest more, Legolas.” The healer was speaking to him as if he were an Elfling, but given his recent bout of unconsciousness, and the true concern he saw in the healer’s kind face, Legolas ignored this.

For the first time, Legolas looked around him, discovering that they were not where they had been when last he remembered. _We have traveled far._ Shamed that he had been unconscious for so long, the Silvan lowered his head, inspecting the flask he had been handed as if from it he could gain redemption for his lack of awareness. _I told them I would see them to Eryn Galen. I have been remiss in my duties and promise._ Rustling about in the cave across the way, Jalian could be heard muttering expletives as he tried to build a fire.

Fluttering about the Elf for a moment, the Ranger seemed unsure of how to act: he did not know what the Prince needed, or how to give it to him. “Just rest here, Legolas.” Standing with a pained grunt, the feverish human added, “It sounds as if Jalian could use some help.” Legolas’ nod went unseen by the Ranger, who hurried into their shelter.

 _A cave. They had to choose a cave for shelter._ The Silvan sighed, fumbled to open the flask, and then took a drink as he decided, _I am not going in that cave, much less sleeping in there._

He would not enter the shelter: he would not spend the night in the confines, no matter that he was not a captive now, that he was not tied or in danger. It did not matter that the cave was naturally formed and had stood there since Arda's second design – he could not enter it, not with the memory of being buried under the dirt and stone in Melfren’s tunnel, and not when he already felt suffocated.

Within, the mercenary had finally built a fire with Aragorn’s help; Jalian began moving quickly in and out of their temporary shelter to gather firewood before the night’s storm came, which would render the dead and seasoned wood too wet to burn, should they try to collect it from outside later.

Strider began to carry bags into the cave, so that should the rain begin to fall, their meager supplies would not be drenched with the coming storm, either, while Legolas sat as he was. _Perhaps they will forget that I am out here,_ he thought, flexing his arms above his head and feeling well, despite having buried Tirn only that morning. It was not that he did not mourn his sentry – no, the Prince could feel his fellow Wood-Elf’s sacrifice for him as one feels an Orc blade through one’s chest. He began to hum to himself, to distract himself from death and despair.

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Treading through the woods, Elrohir was comforted by the familiarity of hunting with his twin. Because Elladan could not wield a bow, the younger Noldo had his at ready while his brother tromped through the underbrush ahead. _Come on,_ he pled to the rabbits, squirrels, or whatever comestible, furry, and tasty creatures might be lurking in the brush. _Come out. I’d like to get back to camp._ While Elrohir walked quietly, his footsteps indiscernible to the sensitive ears of the animals in the forest, Elladan made as much racket as he could to scare the prey into running out in front of Elrohir. Despite his worry over the Wood-Elf and humans he had left at the camp, Elrohir snickered at the sight of his twin trying to be noisy as he walked. Lifting each foot high in the air, Elladan stomped his feet in rapid succession for few moments in the bushes, but then stopped when Elrohir began to laugh outright, dropping his arms down to his sides and leaning over as the laughter took hold of him.

“Elrohir,” his elder twin complained with an amused if bewildered smile, but Elrohir could not stop his mirthful chuckles, the release of several days’ worth of tension and strain causing the amusing sight of his brother’s antics to become much more humorous than they might normally have been.

Elladan came to him, and taking his brother’s arm in his, shook his head, his face serious as he teased, “You are making it difficult to hunt, muindor. But I suppose that if we find no food, we could always boil Aragorn’s leather coat.”

Elrohir shoved his twin lightly, appreciating his brother’s attempt to lighten his mood, for he sorely needed it. “Or we could try hunting again, if would promise not to look so silly as you rouse the sleeping rabbits.”

Harrumphing with mock hurt, the elder twin told his young brother, “If you promise not to laugh so deafeningly, muindor! We’ll have to walk leagues just to find rabbit that you have not already warned of our presence!”

Snorting, Elrohir shoved his brother again, and opened his mouth to return the jibe, but it was an unknown voice that echoed through the dark trees, telling the twins, “I believe you’ll be forced to settle for the leather coat, as loudly as you two Noldor walk through the forest.”

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The Silvan shook his head, sitting against the trunk of a tree, staring blankly at the mouth of the cave. Although he certainly sympathized with the Wood-Elf’s inclination not to sleep in the cave they had found, the storm was coming upon them, the sky blackening with dark clouds, heavy with rain. The moon was obscured by these clouds – the stars, too – and the ailing Wood-Elf, seeking the comfort of the forest and nature outside the cave, was only placing himself in the midst of the storm and elements. Wrapping his arms around himself when the cold gust of wind pushing the storm towards them blew open the tatters of his overcoat, the Ranger asked the Prince, “Will you not come inside?”

Numbly, the Silvan only shook his head again. Aragorn took the opportunity to speak with Legolas, as the Prince and he were alone. One hand holding his stomach and the other catching himself as he plopped ungracefully to the ground, the Ranger groaned before saying, “I concur, Legolas. I’ve no wish to be in another cave or under the earth in any way.” The Wood-Elf did not answer, and so Estel tried again to gain the Silvan’s wavering attention, telling the Prince, “But there are storm clouds overhead, and the moment it begins to rain the twins will cart us within.”

Whether or not the archer was listening, Aragorn could not tell. _He is grieving. I should leave him be,_ the human healer decided. All had carefully avoided the Silvan today out of fear that they might be the instigator of his sorrow, but not once had Legolas showed any signs of grief, save for his slight weeping upon their departure from Tirn’s grave. Though he considered that Legolas might need comfort, Estel did not feel qualified to be the one offering it. _His father and friends will be the ones to help him through this, not strangers who have had part in his suffering._

“Can you hear it, Strider?”

Drawn from his thoughts of the reticent Wood-Elf by the Prince breaking his silence, Aragorn listened intently to the surrounding forest, and hearing nothing but the normal sounds of the nocturnal movements of wildlife, said, “What do you hear, Legolas?”

The immortal closed his eyes and leant his head back against the tree’s trunk behind him: reaching to the collar of his borrowed tunic, the Prince pulled out the medallion hidden underneath, laying the long cord on his chest, while with his hand he held the golden coin tightly. “It sounds like a lullaby that my mother would sing to me, and it reminds me of sleep.” The Wood-Elf grinned, but the show of emotion seemed out of place with the archer telling the Ranger, “It feels as if I am drowning, and all I can hear is the sound of the water of the Forest River rushing over the rock shore.” At first thinking that perhaps the Wood-Elf spoke of the song of the forest, or perhaps of his own mumbled singing, Estel was saddened to understand that the Prince spoke of his grief, of the despair in which he was submerged. “Have you heard the Forest River, Strider?”

“No,” the human healer told the Prince, “I have not heard it.” He could think of nothing else to say. He knew nothing of Elven grief save for its possible consequences.

His grin growing, Legolas opened his eyes to look not to the human to whom he spoke, but to stare above him, to where the limbs of the tree on which he reclined stretched out towards the opening of the small cave. “It grows louder than the song of the forest. It lulls me away from the trees and woods.”

Disturbed by the Silvan’s good humor, when the Prince’s conversation hardly called for it, the Ranger crawled to his knees, and then knelt before the Wood-Elf, pulling the Silvan to him, and wrapping his arms around the slight form. For a moment, the Silvan seemed to stiffen, to pull away from the contact, but the stricken Prince then leant into Estel’s kind embrace, allowing the Ranger to comfort him. While he did not return the embrace, Aragorn could see that the archer welcomed it nonetheless, for Legolas laid his head on the Ranger’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms as tightly around the Prince as he dared to, not wanting to disrupt the Silvan’s injuries, nor wanting to release the fading Wood-Elf back to his solitary mourning. His own deed surprised him, for he had not thought before acting, and he hoped his forwardness would not be insulting to the Prince.

Finally, Legolas pulled away, wiping at his eyes with hands, apologizing, “I am sorry, Strider.” Following the Silvan’s gaze, Estel saw that Jalian had exited the cave – the mercenary threw them a sympathetic and embarrassed smile before he gathered the last of his pile of wood and hurried away from the two.

“No, Legolas. I am sorry. All of this could have been avoided had I acted differently,” he told the Prince. “Tirn would not have died, nor Meika. Elladan would not have been injured.” Feeling his own eyes well with tears, the Ranger told the Silvan, “And you, Legolas. You fade from grief.”

“I cannot die,” the Silvan told him candidly, sitting back and resuming his deliberate handling of the medallion. “Tirn gave his life for me, and I would not waste this gift by fading from grief – not if I can help it.”

They sat in companionable silence. _At least he is willing to try to remain with us._

Legolas suddenly frowned, his head tilted to the side as he listened, and his eyes grew wide. “Someone comes, and they come quickly.” Immediately, the Ranger rose, drawing his sword as he stood before the Silvan.

Aragorn heard the arrow as it flew, the unmistakable hiss of the thin rod of wood cutting through leaves and the thick, humid air of the stormy night. It struck the tree in front of Aragorn, behind Legolas, and surprised both Elf and Ranger with its sudden appearance. Estel threw himself at the Wood-Elf, toppling Legolas to the side while hoping he was not injuring the Silvan by doing so. _We are under attack,_ he thought, struggling to keep his sword away from the Prince’s body even as he fought to keep the Prince’s body covered with his. No more arrows came and no other sounds were heard.

He chanced to look up, to see the threat that had surprised them, but the moment he lifted his head and body from where it rested against the ailing Wood-Elf’s, a hand grabbed him by the back of his tunic, and a blade skimmed across his neck. “Get off him, human, or I’ll tack your hide to a tree and leave you for the spiders. Drop your sword on the ground.”

With the blade still across his neck, Estel was hauled from atop the woodland Prince: he tried desperately to place his feet under him so that he would not stumble forward and thereby invite the sword at his neck to gouge his already tortured throat any more. Before his head was twisted back and his view of the clearing became only the dark, roiling, cloudy sky above him, Aragorn saw the Prince struggling to breathe: having rolled to his side, the Wood-Elf was mired in a fit of coughing, his eyes tightly shut as he tried vainly to draw air into his starved lungs.

“…we’re friends,” Aragorn heard Jalian argue, though he had yet to see who their attackers were.

“Quiet, human,” an authoritative voice told the mercenary; it grew louder as the person continued and came closer to the Ranger, saying, “Hanir, help the Prince.”

He could see a flash of green cloth and dark hair in his peripheral vision, and then, by the hand fisted in his hair, the Ranger’s head was bent forward again. Aragorn was more than astonished to find himself faced with an irate Wood-Elf.

  
  



	42. Chapter 42

The moment the arrow had flown over the Ranger, hitting the tree far above Legolas’ head, the Prince had known they were found by his kin. However, when Aragorn had thrown the Wood-Elf to the ground and spread himself atop the stunned and breathless Legolas, the archer had not the air or the chance to speak to their finders, for his battered ribs had been driven into his lungs and the oxygen from them. He could barely hear, and what he heard had the Elf trying to speak, to explain, but each time he tried, Legolas was bombarded by more coughing, and his ability to hear was soon lost with his ability to breathe.

_Tack his hide to a tree? Leave him for the spiders?_ He sincerely hoped that the Wood-Elf would not make good on his threat against Aragorn, but given the familiar warning to the human, Legolas was excited to hear it nonetheless. _Naiahim. Only he would threaten to tack the humans’ hides to trees._ Had he the breath, Legolas would have laughed: it had been this indomitable warrior, and circumstance, from whom he had taken the idea to leave Ament for the spiders. _Only I have managed to see such a threat done, while he still threatens._

If the Wood-Elf had been at all able to open his eyes against the pain screaming through his chest and the quiet terror of not being able to breathe, Legolas was sure he would find that one of his father’s most trusted and able warriors stood nearby. As it was, however, the Prince rolled from his side to his stomach, thrusting his hands under him and attempting to push himself upright. He had to sit: he needed to breathe. He could not see, he could not speak, and he could not know for certain what was happening, but that he needed to stop his fellow Wood-Elves from killing the humans was paramount on his mind.

_They will think Aragorn and Jalian are my abductors._

Someone was sliding arms under his chest, twisting him around so that he could be pushed back to the ground: from the strong but yielding flesh of the body he was pressed against, Legolas could tell it was a she-Elf that held him now, and because he had heard her name spoken earlier, the Prince knew whom it would be. _Hanir. I must get her to listen._ The female warrior, in an effort to help him, coerced the Prince back to the grass, holding him there with her hands on his bruised chest when he tried to rise. He heard the softer timbre of her voice but could not discern what she spoke to him, for it was lost in the irate and harsh tone of the others arguing.

He tried to hear what was being said, what his fellow Wood-Elves were telling the humans, but the words were lost to him, and his lack of air stole the last of his waning consciousness.

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“We were walking loudly to scare the rabbits,” Elladan argued immediately upon seeing the merry face of a warrior Wood-Elf hanging upside down from the tree behind where he and Elrohir stood.

The Wood-Elf laughed, having enjoyed startling the two trespassers to the Mirkwood forest. Hanging by his knees, which were bent over a limb to balance him, the warrior stretched his arms to the ground, his golden hair whipping through the air as he straightened his legs and fell deftly to the roots beneath: the Elf first landed on his hands, staying there for only a split second ere his feet hit the ground and the Wood-Elf was upright, standing before them.

“And you have done a fine job of it, I am sure,” the warrior told them, the merriness never waning from his smile, though within the dark, russet eyes of the Wood-Elf there was also wariness, and sorrow. “But prey in these parts of Mirkwood is more cautious than elsewhere, for the spiders do not limit themselves to just eating Elves and men.” Glancing from twin to twin, his hand on the hilt of his sword, the warrior asked, “Why, if you do not mind my asking, do two Noldor hunt in one of the most dangerous areas of the forest?”

Underlying this question was the more subtle inquiry of why the Noldor were in Eryn Galen at all, and the warrior gave no impression that he cared if the twins minded his asking. _Legolas! He will want to know of his Prince._ Elladan, eager to relate the good news of the Prince’s safety and to implore the woodland warrior for help, told his fellow Elda, “One of the most dangerous areas? Legolas assured us that this was the safe way.” He watched the warrior’s visage become guarded, and the Wood-Elf stepped closer to them, ready to question: knowing the query, however, Elladan supplied readily, “Perhaps you can ask him why he wanted to travel this way to the palace… once he wakes. He is at our camp.”

Elladan stepped in front of his twin instinctively when the Wood-Elf seized the hilt of his sword and rushed forwards, but violence was not the warrior’s intent, and he stopped just short of running into the elder twin to ask, “The Prince? Where? Why is he with you?”

“Peace, friend,” Elrohir soothed, shoving his brother softly out of the way in annoyance at Elladan’s protectiveness, and acting more diplomatically than his twin had in explaining, “He is well at the moment, though we are glad for you to be here. We are low on herbs and food, which is why –”

“Take me to him,” the warrior demanded harshly, lifting the pommel of his sword, ready to force the twins into doing so if they did not comply.

Only because the elder twin could understand the Wood-Elf’s hesitance to rely on the words of two strangers for the well-being of his Prince, Elladan placated, “Of course we will take you to him. He is with our brother and friend.”

The warrior reached out to grab Elrohir’s arm to push him into action, to get the two brothers to lead him to his Prince: Elladan tried to remain calm at the Wood-Elf’s act, for Elf or not, he would not suffer the Wood-Elf to hurt his grieving brother. He caught his twin’s reassuring smile, however, and then returned it as Elrohir, not one to use his lordship to gain favor, told the Wood-Elf, “I am Elrohir Elrondion, of Imladris, and this is my brother, Elladan.”

“I am Salneril Saldonion, of Thranduil’s halls,” the warrior replied automatically, his good manners besting his distrust for the moment; but then the Wood-Elf’s hand fell back to his side, releasing Elrohir’s arm, as he eyed them suspiciously. “Elrondion?” His hand settling back onto his sword’s hilt, lifting it slightly as the warrior looked between the two Elves, his eyes widening as he studied more closely the two Noldor he had caught in his homeland.

_He is just noticing we are twins,_ the elder brother mused, having seen the same expression on many faces when first they saw the identical twins. Usually their similarity would have already been noticed, but given that Elladan was bandaged, bruised, and most of his head was still covered in linen from the gash on his forehead, the elder twin could understand this.

“You could be anyone, claiming to be the sons of the Lord of Imladris,” Salneril retorted, though he lowered his sword.

“Tirn believed us readily enough,” Elladan mumbled, disappointed when Salneril did not trust them. He soon realized the folly of not thinking through his words before he spoke.

“Tirn is with you?” the warrior quickly inquired, a smile gracing his fair face. “He is with the Prince?”

The twins’ eyes met for a moment, exchanging the same information. _Wonderful. Now we must tell him that the sentry is dead._

Not wanting his twin to revisit the pain of Tirn’s death, Elladan nonetheless answered Salneril’s question bluntly, saying, “Tirn is not with us. He is dead.” When the Wood-Elf’s smile vanished, the twin sought to reassure the warrior with what he knew would be a compliment to Tirn, “He died saving the Prince. If not for Tirn, Legolas, my two brothers and I, and our human friend would have died.”

With a frown, the Wood-Elf drew his sword, forcing Elladan to step before his twin again, though the warrior only ordered them gruffly, “Take me to the Prince.”

Elrohir nodded and led the way, and though Elladan waited for the warrior to follow, the Wood-Elf gestured with his drawn sword for the elder twin to walk next. Falling into step behind his twin, the elder Noldo looked behind him to see that Salneril now held his sword out, aimed at Elladan’s back as if the twin might flee, or turn on the warrior with the intent to kill him.

Although he had not removed their weapons, tied them, or showed them any harm at all, Elladan could tell that the Wood-Elf would do whatever it took to find his Prince, and he would not interfere with Salneril’s purpose. Elladan was not about to allow Elrohir or himself to be harmed just to satisfy their pride. If it took them walking in a single file line as Elflings to their lessons for the Wood-Elf to feel safe, then Elladan would not argue. _All this will be settled once we reach the camp._ The warrior was suspicious, not violent, and unless he gave Elladan any reason to believe otherwise, the Noldo would not complain, for he was between Salneril and his twin, and keeping his brother safe meant more to him than being treated like a criminal.

“Are there other Wood-Elves with you?” he asked Salneril, following his twin back to the camp. They had rambled through the forest for the last half hour in their hunting, but Elrohir had memorized the way back. “We could use the protection and supplies if you’ve any to spare.”

The Wood-Elf hesitated before responding, “There are several others dispersed through the forest. We have been looking for the Prince.”

“I thought that King Thranduil sent no search parties after it had been found that his captors took to the Anduin,” a curious Elrohir stated from ahead, though he added so that the Wood-Elf would not think his questioning statement was meant as criticism, “Because there were no warriors to spare, I mean – because he did not wish to expend the warriors when Eryn Galen’s borders need them.”

The Wood-Elf did not want to answer any of the trespassing Noldor’s queries, Elladan was certain, but the warrior sighed and replied, “Once King Thranduil gave Tirn his permission to seek the Prince, every warrior and sentry on leave made the same request.” Snorting in a short, weary, and halfhearted burst of amusement, the Wood-Elf told them quietly, “Tirn may not have known it, but he nearly started a revolt. Prince Legolas’ friends are many, and none who could come was willing to be left behind in searching for him. King Thranduil allowed only some of us to leave, though, as the others might be needed. We have been combing the forest since, moving southwards with hope of finding the Prince, Tirn, or some sign of the Prince's abductors to pay them their dues for their crimes.”

Elrohir turned round to tell both his twin and Salneril, “There was more to Tirn than even he realized, it would seem.” The younger twin smiled sadly at his brother and then walked on, leading the hurried trio to the campsite.

He was ecstatic that they had been found. _The Wood-Elves can help us to Eryn Galen._ His twin would be freed of his responsibility for all their lives, the Ranger and Silvan could have the herbs they needed, and Legolas would be surrounded by Elves he knew, rather than strangers who he had only encountered in times of trouble. By Elladan’s account, their situation was clearly improving.

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Aragorn twisted in his captor’s arms, keeping his head still, however, so that he would not harm himself against the blade still pressed against his throat. _I have to help him._

“Sit him up,” he told the she-Elf, pleading with the warrior to listen. “He cannot breathe lying down. His airway is blocked from injury.”

The four Wood-Elves that had entered the clearing only moments ago shared the same acidic tone of voice, all of them emanating the same violent ambitions for the two humans, and though he could only see three of the Elves, he could feel the one behind him exuding the same hatred that marred the others’ fair faces. Now that the clouds had obscured the moon and stars, the only illumination in the dark clearing was the tinge of orange light of the fire set within the cave that Jalian and he had lit earlier.

“Keep your mouth closed, human,” the irate Wood-Elf behind him cautioned, removing the blade at Estel’s throat temporarily before kicking the Ranger behind his knee so that Aragorn fell kneeling to the ground. The blade was rapidly replaced at his neck, and the hand fisted in his hair tightened its grip.

The Ranger ignored the pain this caused him, his attention only for Legolas, who was unconscious. His breathing slowed into almost imperceptible movements of his chest, the Silvan’s pale skin was becoming nearly translucent, and the Ranger could not remain quiet when the Prince suffocated. “Sit him up,” he implored the female warrior, praying that she would listen. “He cannot breathe.”

The she-Elf looked to the others for guidance, but they all watched with helpless worry as their Prince struggled for air. Hanir gave the Ranger a cursory glare, warning him silently that he had best not be lying, and then quickly pulled her dark hair away from her face, tucking it into her collar so that it would not hang in her way as she tried to tend Legolas. Pulling the Silvan up from the ground, she arranged the Prince with his back against her kneeling thighs, his head lying against her stomach, and the archer’s torso now inclined. Almost immediately, the Prince began to cough: blood sprayed from his mouth, dribbling down his chin in lathered rivulets as his body, though still unconscious, sought to fill his lungs. The female Wood-Elf swiped at the blood on her Prince’s chin with her tunic: Hanir and the other Wood-Elves seemed to sigh a collective breath of relief to find Legolas could now breathe as well.

“It was not us that hurt ‘im,” Jalian tried to explain. The mercenary was in much the same state as Aragorn – that is, with a blade to his throat and a Wood-Elf keeping him immobile by it. The disfigured mercenary was trembling, his fear of the Elves more than likely stemming from the same difficulty that Estel could not reconcile: with Legolas unconscious, there was no one to ameliorate this tense situation.

“Not you? Two humans took the Prince.” The warrior that the she-Elf had earlier called Naiahim glanced around him with mock surprise, adding, “And there are two humans here, with our injured Prince.” Squatting so that he was face to face with the Ranger, Naiahim spat in the human’s visage, the disgust and hatred the now spittle covered Aragorn saw in the Wood-Elf evincing to the Ranger that if he did not soon convince the Wood-Elves that he and Jalian were friends, then their lives were forfeit. “Swine. What have you done to him?”

Perhaps it was the sudden flash of guilt that ran through him as he thought of his responsibility in Legolas’ current condition, or from Naiahim’s obvious detestation for the humans he believed to have harmed his Prince, but the Wood-Elf sneered at the Ranger, Estel’s answer unnecessary. Naiahim fisted his hand, ramming it into the human’s stomach. Forthwith, Aragorn tried to double over from the agony of having his infected but healing burn wounds rent with the warrior’s violent retribution. However, the blade at his throat immediately had him leaning backwards, rather than forwards to protect his stomach, when he realized his predicament.

“Sauron’s arse, Naiahim,” the Elf holding Estel complained, removing the blade from Aragorn’s throat and inspecting it for blood, before replacing it at Strider’s neck. “You could have slit his throat with that outburst.”

Naiahim did not disagree. “It would be what he deserves. What have you done to the Prince? Why did you take him?”

He did not return the warrior’s incisive glare, but watched Hanir as she opened a skin of water for Legolas. “Do not give him anything to drink,” he told her, “he will choke,” the Ranger explained: his shattered patience he tried to reform as he watched Hanir continue to open the flask of water.

“I asked you to be quiet, human,” the Wood-Elf holding him warned, twitching the blade at the Ranger’s throat though he did not cut him. “We do not need your advice.”

_If you wish your Prince to live, you must listen,_ he thought but did not say. He did not intend to make the Wood-Elves any angrier than they already were.

“Please, I am a healer, trust me. Do not give him water, not while he is unconscious.” He had learned this lesson only moments before, when nearly choking Legolas by doing the same that Hanir now attempted.

“Why would you wish to help him, human?” Hanir charged as Legolas began to cough again, thankfully forgetting the flask of water so that she could keep the shaking Prince upright, and letting the opened container fall to the grass where it emptied itself. “I can feel his grief. I have lost my sister to the same fate, though it was Orcs and not humans who…” The she-Elf stopped speaking, lowering her head to watch the fallen Elda’s coughing subside. “The Prince has been mistreated by these humans. He is fading.”

Naiahim rose to his feet, his disbelieving stare directed at Jalian and the Wood-Elf who held him, before it fell upon Aragorn once more. “And we managed to stumble upon your camp before you could mistreat him again, Orc spawn. Did we interrupt your fun, humans?”

Aragorn struggled to understand what the Wood-Elf meant, but then realized, _I tackled Legolas to the ground to shield him from the arrows. He thinks I was trying to attack his Prince._ Closing his eyes, sickened at the idea that any would think he would harm the Silvan, the human nearly groaned in frustration. He was guilty in Naiahim’s thinking, whether he had stolen the Prince or not, and both he and Jalian would pay for this with their lives.

The Elf behind him argued, saying, “The human was standing before you released your arrow, Naiahim. It was not until afterward that he jumped upon the Prince.”

The Elf sounded as if he was defending Aragorn, but the Ranger knew better than to trust in this beneficence. “I was trying to keep him from being your target,” the Ranger retorted. “I did not know who you were, or what your intentions might be.”

“A likely excuse.” Naiahim scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. The storm clouds over the Elf’s head were crawling closer, the cold wind blowing the Wood-Elf’s fair hair around his head in its own storm of flaxen braids as he accused, “Even still, you have harmed our Prince before tonight, and you will not go unpunished.”

“He is fading, my friend, yes. He has been mistreated, but it was not us,” the Ranger tried desperately to explain, looking up to Naiahim despite the rub of the blade against his throat. _I have to diffuse this. I must make them understand._ “His captors are dead. We are helping him. My brothers are in the forest hunting, they will return any moment and can explain this to you. They are –”

“Do not call me friend, human,” the warrior hissed in interruption, stepping closer to Aragorn so that he peered down at the Ranger. “You have taken our Prince, and you have abused him. You will not go unpunished,” he repeated.

Aragorn shook his head in negation, the blade cutting across his already marred throat but he did not care: he would not die this way, not with the Prince in less than capable hands, not when it meant that Jalian, forgiven by Legolas for his part in the Prince’s abduction, would be slaughtered. He could only imagine the scene his brothers would happen upon when returning from their hunting. “You are mistaken. Let Legolas wake before you make such hasty conclusions.”

“Dispatch the scarred one,” Naiahim ordered vehemently of the Wood-Elf holding Jalian, ignoring Aragorn’s advice and sliding his own blade from his scabbard to point it at the Ranger. “This one I wish to kill myself.”

  
  



	43. Chapter 43

Above them, the sky roiled with storm clouds that promised a torrential downpour, replete with brief illuminations of lightning that crackled dangerously in the distance, though it would soon be over their heads. _We should get back to the cave quickly. I do not want to be out in this, nor do I trust that Aragorn can convince Legolas to stay within the shelter, should the Prince even be awake now._ Unthinkingly, Elrohir increased his pace, his worry over the oncoming storm not his only reason for wishing to return to their camp as soon as possible.

The Wood-Elf walked only a pace behind Elladan, his sword still pointed towards the Noldor. They were a quiet ternary of Elves, for the twins could tell that Salneril did not wish to speak with them – the warrior wanted to see his Prince, and then, perhaps, there would be time for questions and explanations. For now, however, the Wood-Elf’s fair face was set in fervent determination. _I hope that Legolas will be awake so that he can explain to his fellow warrior that we are friends,_ the younger twin thought. _I do not think Salneril will be so eager to listen to our story of Legolas’ condition if the warrior thinks we have had some part in it._ The brothers did, in fact, have some part in Legolas’ circumstance: by the twins’ reckoning, Aragorn in particular bore much blame in the Prince’s sorrow, but Elrohir had no plans to tell the warrior this, nor any of the Wood-Elf’s companion soldiers, for the younger Noldo feared the reaction of Legolas’ subjects to this knowledge, especially if Legolas remained unconscious.

The Noldo suddenly felt a fear he had not felt since his twin’s consciousness had touched his, not since Elladan had been afraid to face the witch in the clearing. His other, human brother was in trouble, and the distinct, accompanying feeling of doom overwhelmed him: abruptly, the Noldo stopped walking, which nearly caused Elladan to stumble into him.

Elladan whispered softly from behind him, “Elrohir? Have you forgotten which way to go?”

The younger Noldo shook his head, did not turn to face his twin, and began picking his way through the forest again. Despite Elrohir’s belief that the woodland warrior behind his twin meant them no harm, and regardless of his joy to know that their worries were over, that the Wood-Elves would be able to help Legolas, Aragorn, and Elladan with their herbs, food, and their mere presence while traveling to Eryn Galen, the younger twin fought the urge to run haphazardly through the forest to the camp.

After a few more steps, the Elda paused in his walking yet again, his mind worked quickly to recall which way to turn amongst the twisted trees – Elrohir nearly forgot to begin walking once more when the thought struck him: _Salneril has said there are other Wood-Elves combing the forest. I wonder if they are nearby._ Elrohir’s chest seemed to draw in upon itself, tightening as a dark, deleterious portent came to him – the Wood-Elves might come across the two humans and the injured Prince. His earlier thoughts of explaining Legolas’ condition to Salneril came back to him, and when added to these new worries, exacerbated the younger twin’s rush to reach the camp. _Salneril does not believe two of his own kind when we say we are friends. What hope would two humans have of convincing the Wood-Elves that they have not harmed their Prince?_

He imagined the Ranger and mercenary as they made camp, telling himself, _They are well._ Still, the Noldo could not shake his dread, and so he thought of Legolas as he had last seen the Prince; the young, battered Elf had been lying on the ground, sleeping the sound sleep of one whose body wanted more rest than the Prince had allowed himself. _We will find them alive. They will have come to no harm, not in the short time we have been gone._

“What is it, Elrohir?” he heard his twin ask with exasperation and worry, but the younger twin no longer saw his brother, the Wood-Elf, or the woods around him.

As he had when watching Ament die, the Noldo could see what Legolas saw; however, the Prince seemed to be looking at nothing. _It is as if Legolas were swimming in the lake,_ the younger twin thought of the eerie lack of light and sound, and though he felt his twin lay a hand on his shoulder, it did not deter the younger brother from trying to retain this new vision. _Legolas is unconscious._ Not sure how to remove the unusual apparition from his mind, or if he should try, Elrohir argued, _But Legolas was unconscious before we left. I am only seeing what I should be seeing. What causes this premonition of danger now?_

It was the despair and exhaustion that finally showed the younger Noldo what danger lay ahead of them in the forest – the sightless and soundless existence in which the Prince was languishing was familiar to the twin, for he had felt it previously. _Legolas is dying._ Elrohir was connected to the Prince as before, and as before, when the Prince had just slain Ament and Legolas had desired to fade, the younger twin could feel the Wood-Elf’s grief as it claimed him, and Elrohir could tell that the Prince’s languishing body desired to remain in the leaden stupor of the young Elf’s imminent death.

Elrohir was not sure of what exactly was happening in the clearing, but he knew that they were needed, and that they were needed now. _Legolas is dying and Aragorn is in trouble._ Without bothering to confer with either his twin or the Wood-Elf, Elrohir took off through the woods blindly, no longer following the directions he had memorized, as he could not see the forest around him. The Noldo ran instinctively towards the source of the apprehension holding his racing heart captive.

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“We will wait for Captain Salneril to find us,” the Wood-Elf holding his blade to Estel’s throat told his fellow Elf. “We have no proof that it was these humans who have injured the Prince.”

Naiahim’s answering scowl reminded the Ranger of Ament, and a chill ran through him at the thought that the Wood-Elf would not see reason, much like the fallen mercenary. _And here I am again, waiting to die with a blade at my neck,_ he jibed himself humorlessly, again thinking of Ament and the mercenary’s predilection for slitting throats.

“Why wait, Maeneros? We could be done with them now,” Naiahim told his fellow Elf, grinning at Aragorn in anticipation.

From across the campsite, Jalian’s scarred visage appeared deathly pale as it was lit by the lightning in the sky: the mercenary stuttered as he repeated what the Ranger had attempted to explain to the Wood-Elves only moments before, “Th-there’s others…they’ll b-be back…”

“Yes,” the one called Naiahim muttered, rolling his eyes at Aragorn, though it was to Jalian that he said sarcastically, “Your friend here has already warned us that his brothers are coming back.”

The four Wood-Elves suddenly turned their heads to the edge of the clearing; what they heard the Ranger did not know, but it was enough that they were distracted for a moment and Estel’s demise delayed for him to decide, _If the twins arrive, certainly the Wood-Elves would listen to them._ Whether the noise in the forest came from the twins or not, or perhaps the trees singing of the twins, Aragorn could not wait to find out. The Ranger would have to find a way to stay alive, for the blade at his throat and the sharp sword that Naiahim held out towards the human might not be halted in time, or at all, by the Noldor’s intervention.

A salvo of thunder seemed to shake the very air around them, its fierce report startling the Wood-Elves and humans alike from their intense heeding of the sounds in the forest. When Maeneros cursed in surprise, the Ranger quickly tried to take advantage of the warrior’s lax grasp; Aragorn brought his arm up and shoved his fingers between his neck and the Elf’s blade. Uncaring that the sharp sword cut into his fingers and palm, the Ranger’s other, fisted hand collided with the woodland warrior’s stomach, driving the Elda’s body forward. Maeneros released his hold of the human’s hair with a grunt of pain as he tried to remain upright from where he stood behind Aragorn.

The moment he had jerked the blade far enough away from his throat, the Ranger threw himself to the side towards his own blade, which he had been forced to discard on the ground earlier. Aragorn rolled as he moved, kicking out at Maeneros at the same time, for neither Wood-Elf would hesitate to kill the human, and the Ranger knew that a moving target would be harder to hit.

“Naiahim,” Maeneros warned with a shout, as he lost his balance and fell backwards onto his rear on the ground. However, the angry Naiahim had already noticed Aragorn’s actions and stepped forward once more with his blade at ready, intending to dispense of the Ranger.

“Estel!”

 _Elrohir._ The Ranger recognized his brother’s voice but he did not stop rolling, nor did he cease his mad scramble away from the Wood-Elves until his hand had found the hilt of his sword amongst the grass. He stumbled to his feet – the burns on his stomach and chest felt newly made, as the barely closed, charred apertures had fumbled apart during his struggle to be free of the Elf.

“Wait,” the younger twin said, this time speaking quietly. Elrohir walked into the clearing, his eyes wide as if he was only just seeing what was happening. “It is not as you think,” he told the Wood-Elves, stepping forward into the clearing until Naiahim, who had halted his advance on the Ranger the moment Elrohir had shouted, unlatched the catch on his quiver to release his bow.

Naiahim laid his sword on the ground and removed his bow causally, and then notched an arrow upon the string just as nonchalantly. “Come no closer,” the Wood-Elf cautioned, drawing back the bowstring without aiming it, his preparation to do so a warning to Elrohir, however.

 _Sweet Eru._ Aragorn turned the hilt of his sword in hand, gauging which way he could throw the blade so that it would strike the Wood-Elf without killing him. _I will not stand here and watch while this crazed Wood-Elf kills Elrohir in cold blood._

Hanir held the Prince, and the Elf holding Jalian had not moved, but Maeneros rose from where Aragorn had thrown him to forest floor and Naiahim, who glanced at the Ranger and then at Elrohir, told the Noldo, “State your name, and why you trespass in King Thranduil’s lands.”

Although the younger Noldo responded, his answer was lost amidst a deafening clap of thunder and the sudden approach of Elladan. With Jalian still held at knife-point, Legolas on the ground coughing blood and desperate in his insentience to breathe, Aragorn holding his sword in preparation for battle, and a Wood-Elf with his bow aimed upon his twin, the elder twin’s eyes grew just as round and wide as his brother’s at the scene. Confused as to what was occurring and who was at fault for it, Elladan held his hands out from his waist, palms towards the Ranger, and told Estel, “Drop your blade, brother. These Elves mean you no harm.”

 _There you are wrong,_ the Ranger thought to himself, though he did not say this aloud, _for if you had not arrived, Jalian and I would both be beyond mere harm._

Furtively, the Ranger looked to his fellow human: in his fear-bred desperation, the mercenary was on the verge of doing something terribly ill advised. Elladan must have followed Estel’s gaze with his own, for with indignation he demanded at once, “Release the human. He has done you no harm.”

“No,” Naiahim told them, shouting over the rising clamor of thunder and the swift wind that made the old trees creak and groan as their limbs swayed. “No, but they have harmed our Prince, and they are ours to deal with. Now answer me: who are you, and why are you in Eryn Galen?”

To the Ranger’s surprise, yet another Wood-Elf sprang forth from the surrounding forest, his sword outthrust as he bound towards the twins. Helpless but to watch as the seemingly unsuspecting twins were to be attacked from behind, the Ranger fumbled forward to do what he could to stop his brothers from being hurt. However, ere he had taken more than two steps, Naiahim was turned around, the arrow now trained on Aragorn.

But the newcomer stopped short of the twins and asked breathlessly, “What is happening, Naiahim?”

“We have found the Prince, Captain, and the humans who have taken him.” Again grinning at the Ranger, Naiahim’s fingers played upon his taut bowstring, his anticipation to kill Aragorn a gleam of feral bloodlust in his dark eyes.

“Put down your sword, Estel,” the elder twin tried again. Neither twin moved, for they did not want to instigate violence against themselves or their brother.

Aragorn would not drop his sword: the Wood-Elf who had appeared with Estel’s twin brothers from the forest held his own blade out towards the Noldor, and though neither twin seemed afraid of this, it frightened the Ranger to see that his brothers’ welfare was in doubt. The sky and forest became luminously white with another round of streak lightning. The storm was nearly upon them.

“Naiahim, stay your hand and put away your weapons,” the Elda behind the twins demanded with a sigh, and then replaced his own sword. His voice carrying the weight of authority with which one accustomed to having his orders followed tends to use, the Captain told his warriors, “These Noldor claim to be the sons of Elrond, and I will not have our kingdom disgraced with their deaths.” The Mirkwood Captain, whom Aragorn was glad to know held authority over the vengeful Wood-Elves, frowned at the warrior holding Jalian. Immediately, the mercenary was released: Jalian hurried away from the Wood-Elf by moving inside the cave, as if the shelter would offer him protection from the volatile situation outside.

The she-Elf Hanir spoke up from where she sat on the ground with her Prince, confirming with wonder as she looked between Elladan and Elrohir, “I recognize the Noldor from when I took my sister to the Grey Havens. We passed through the hidden valley on our way.” Turning her attention back to Legolas’ ashen, bloodstained face when another fit of coughing overtook him, she told the warriors around her, “They are indeed the sons of Elrond.”

Naiahim’s anger did not abate at knowing that the Elves who he had held his arrow upon were Elven Lords, but his violence was deflated. “He fades, Captain,” Naiahim seethed, replacing his arrow, and then his bow. Seizing his sword from where he had placed it on the ground, the Wood-Elf did not put it away, but kept it in hand, as he told his Captain, “These humans have defiled our Prince. This one’s brothers are coming back for him,” he said, pointing his blade at the Ranger.

“It was not these humans,” Elladan explained as he and Elrohir finally walked into the clearing and stood between the Wood-Elves and the Ranger. “They have helped your Prince. _We_ are the Ranger’s brothers, though not by blood. We –”

“All of this can be explained to the King,” the Captain interrupted tersely, glaring at each of his underlings and then the two humans before he turned his gaze to the Noldor twins. “My Lords,” Salneril said, allowing no room for argument as he asked of them, “You and your human friends will accompany us to Thranduil’s halls. We will leave immediately to take the Prince home to his father.”

“Of course,” Elladan answered for them all, as this has been their intent all along. “We were on our way there before meeting you, though we had stopped the night to allow our wounded to rest.”

The Captain nodded, and then began barking orders to his warriors, all of whom jumped to follow their leader’s demands – all save Naiahim, who took his time in sneering at the Noldor and humans before leaving to fetch the Wood-Elves’ horses and supplies as he was directed. Not until the soldier had left the clearing did Aragorn finally replace his sword in its scabbard.

“Come, Estel,” the younger Noldo told him, pulling him by the arm away from the group of warriors that bustled through the camp.

The twins led him to the mouth of the cave where their own supplies were ensconced within the shelter, leaving Legolas to his sentries’ care. Aragorn could tell that the Wood-Elves, though competent warriors, were not healers, and Hanir and her companions fretted over the Prince, uncertain what would aid him. _Elrohir or Elladan could tell them what to do. However, at the moment, I doubt they would allow any of us near Legolas._ He let one of the twins wrap his newly cut fingers, while the other checked his other wounds. They did not speak. The Wood-Elves would be able to hear them; the three brothers did not wish to garner any more suspicion than the Wood-Elves already had for them, and so remained quiet.

One of the Elves, the one who had held Jalian, and who Aragorn believed to be called Alnam, judging by the orders the Captain had barked, walked to them carrying a satchel. Jalian moved closer to Aragorn, obviously uneasy with the Elf’s presence. Bending down before the Noldor and two humans, the Wood-Elf avoided meeting their eyes as he sat the bag in front of Elladan. “Captain Salneril says that you are in need,” the warrior stated, opened the satchel, and rifled through it. “We have lembas and cured meat.”

While they had been searching, in fact, for _fresh_ food, as they had waybread and cured meat of their own, Elrohir took the leaf wrapped rations from the Wood-Elf, telling Alnam gratefully, “Thank you, my friend.”

“We have few herbs,” the warrior told them, finally raising his gaze though he kept it carefully upon the Noldo, and did not look at either Jalian or Estel. “We are no healers,” the Wood-Elf said by way of explanation, unintentionally confirming to the Ranger his opinion of them a moment ago, “and I do not know if any of our medicines will help your human friends.”

That the Elf spoke of the mercenary and himself as though they were not sitting beside the twins evinced to Aragorn that the distrust between the two races would not be so easily absolved. It did not concern the Ranger: the only matter that bothered Estel, at least now that the twins and Jalian were safe, was the blanched but blood spattered Prince who lay on the ground, his faer and vigor fading before their very eyes.

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Elladan adjusted the sling on his arm in agitation: though it was intended to keep his arm from moving, and thus his broken collarbone from being jarred, the Noldo was sorely tempted to remove it. He would have, had not he known that Elrohir would have balked and demanded he replace it immediately. Moreover, since Elrohir rode beside him in their awkward procession, Elladan was sure that his twin would notice.

The tension amongst the travelers was nearly as heavy as the humid air. _The Wood-Elves would have had Aragorn’s head had not Elrohir seen what was happening,_ the elder Noldo worried. Once more, his twin’s fortuitous insight had saved their brother’s life and that of the mercenary as well. _Even though the she-Elf has told them we do not lie, and that we are Lords of Imladris, they still do not trust us._ Elladan glanced over his shoulder at Aragorn, who sat upright in his saddle as if the Wood-Elves would turn on them at any moment.

The herbs that the warriors had with them were not the kind that would help the Ranger’s fever, nor Legolas’ coughing. If they traveled with the celerity that Elladan anticipated the woodland warriors would wish to travel to take their Prince home, the twin estimated, _We should arrive in Eryn Galen the day after tomorrow._ It was well that they would be traveling both day and night, for Legolas’ cold and grey complexion, his renewed coughing of blood, and his unconsciousness frightened Elladan, as he knew it frightened the others. Getting the fallen Prince and febrile Estel to Eryn Galen overshadowed any concerns Elladan had of the Wood-Elves reticent hatred.

They were surrounded by them. The woodland soldiers could merely have been trying to protect the Noldor and humans, but to Elladan, he felt a prisoner as they traversed the dim, tangled forest. _They do not trust us. They would keep us within their sights and as far away from Legolas as possible,_ the Noldor deliberated, agreeing with Aragorn on the matter unknowingly. Even Salneril, who had seemed merry when first the twins had met them, was now somber as they traveled. _It is no wonder. He had hoped to find his Prince, and though he has, he has only found him dying._

The rain did not start slowly. One moment thunder and streak lightning was the only tumult in the dark clouds, and in the next moment, the wind pushed the storm closer to the travelers, and the rain down upon them. It beat against their unprotected heads, drenching them ere their mounts had even walked out of sight of the campsite. _Why must it always rain when it is most imperative for us to remain dry?_ Elladan’s personal grievance with the downpour was that the cold rain endangered the health of the human Ranger. _Estel is already feverish. He does not need this to complicate his illness._

Violence emanated from Naiahim, and given the chance, Elladan was anxious that the warrior would attempt to harm Aragorn or Jalian again. It would be a long journey with much discomfort and little rest. However, despite the aid of the Wood-Elves in both supplies and protection, Elladan found himself more worried now than before. As Naiahim moved his horse closer to where the Prince rode with Hanir, the elder Noldo thought, _If Legolas does not wake to explain what has happened before we reach Eryn Galen, it may be more than just his life hanging in the balance._

  
  



	44. Chapter 44

The pain of his wounded stomach was growing unbearable: Aragorn would never confess this to his brothers, who were worried enough for him as it were, nor did he wish to admit to such weakness in front of the Wood-Elves, but the agony of his belly’s scorched flesh was becoming worse, the fever emanating from the wounds intensifying. _Only a few more days and we will be in Eryn Galen. I can withstand this discomfort for a few more days._

It was nearing sunrise. The torrential storm had long since stopped the night before, but as she rose, Anor hid behind the clouds – with no warmth and no sunlight, the Ranger’s clothes were just as wet as if the rain had never ceased. Aragorn no longer shivered with each gust of wind that blew between the thick, dense trees of the forest, for his body had grown weary of shivering, it seemed, and he only swayed in misery with every forceful zephyr. _It is summertime! Why can it not be warm?_ Even were it balmy, the Ranger would still likely be uncomfortable; instead of freezing, his feverish body would just be burning.

As they had traveled through the night and the better part of today, their arrival in Eryn Galen grew closer and their journey shorter with the harsh pace the Wood-Elves set to take their Prince home. At their current rate, the travelers would be in Thranduil’s halls by tomorrow night, or so the warriors had told the Noldor and two humans. For his part, the Ranger could not have been happier to leave the Mirkwood forest. Aragorn had not forgotten that upon reaching Thranduil’s halls, he and his brothers would likely receive as warm a welcome as the Ranger and mercenary had been given the night before, when the Wood-Elves had found their Prince in the care of the Noldor and humans.

 _Thranduil will likely have my head, and rightfully so,_ the Adan told himself, adjusting his seat on his mare so that he could sit comfortably while turning to glance back at where Legolas was riding with Naiahim.

The young Elda had been passed to different riders during the long hours so as not to tire any one horse, though Legolas had only been passed between the woodland warriors, and not the Noldor or humans. However, the horses were tired nonetheless, for their breaks in riding had been short, and even though they only ambled unhurriedly now, the Wood-Elves would soon prompt the travelers into a faster pace.

With one arm wrapped protectively around the Prince’s midsection and another around Legolas’ chest to hold him upright, Naiahim stared straight ahead, his attention not on the forest around him, as were his fellow Elves’ every sense. The other Wood-Elves were just as protective of the Prince as Naiahim, and the Ranger held little doubt that should anything challenge Legolas’ safety, there would be fair warning, even should Naiahim himself not be paying attention. The heavy gaze of the blond, fierce warrior finally convinced the weary Aragorn to turn away from his perusal of the Prince’s condition: Naiahim gave a sneer of amusement at the small victory against the Ranger, though Estel paid the Elf no mind.

The group of travelers had not spoken of what had occurred over the last several days while Legolas had been captive to the mercenaries, or of what the Prince had suffered. In fact, other than the terse commands of Captain Salneril, little at all had been said during the long ride, and the Adan had grown accustomed to Naiahim’s stares and thinly veiled threats against the humans. His brothers had no clue about the true extent of the aggressive reception the Wood-Elves had given the two humans, and so the twins, while they could sense the animosity, seemed oblivious as to what malicious undercurrent existed, particularly between Aragorn and the warrior Naiahim. If they heard the latent threats or insults against them, neither twin acknowledged the sly invectives, preferring instead to act accordingly, for they were Elven Lords with the reputations of their realms to preserve, and unlike Strider and Jalian, Elladan and Elrohir were with their own kind, and therefore in little danger.

Tuning in to his brother’s voice, Aragorn heard Elrohir implore the Captain, “Legolas may be unconscious but his body still needs restful sleep, that which cannot be obtained while being bounced on a horse.“

 _Legolas’ abused body could do well with a rest from the continuous jostling of riding a horse,_ the Ranger agreed but did not say. His opinion was not wanted.

Captain Salneril spoke with no emotion, saying as he nodded his accord, “The Prince will be better aided resting in Eryn Galen, rather than rest here. But we will pause, though only for a short time.” At once, the Wood-Elf’s horse slowed and the Captain dismounted.

Edgy stares and unspoken worries weighed heavy amongst the travelers: as they dismounted and prepared for their rest, the Elves and men would catch each other’s eye only to look down to the ground, search the boughs of the trees, or light upon the fallen Elf Prince rather than look at each other. _We are friends to the Prince, all of us, but few of us are friends to each other,_ the Ranger thought of the Wood-Elves, Noldor twins, and of himself. Only Naiahim was not timid about maintaining eye contact with the Noldor and humans, though anger was the only emotion the Wood-Elf displayed.

Sitting before the Ranger, Elrohir fretted over the human’s injuries, shaking his head to himself in absentminded concern. As Elrohir finished unwrapping the cuts on the human’s fingers, made by the previous night’s altercation with the sharp edge of Maeneros’ blade, Estel kept his gaze carefully away from the Wood-Elves, save for Legolas, who was being taken from Naiahim’s horse by two of his fellow Eldar. The occasional flicker of a frown would grace the Prince’s beaten, contused brow, before the Silvan’s face would grow slack once more. _He is waking,_ the Ranger hoped. _If he does wake, we will need to keep him alert, and occupied, else he may never wake again._

For the moment, the Noldor and two humans were almost forgotten, so absorbed were the Wood-Elves in helping Legolas. Holding the Prince aloft with the other Wood-Elves, and then walking towards a patch of soft grass on which to lay the sovereign, Naiahim glared at the onlooking Ranger.

“If looks could kill, Aragorn…” the younger of his brothers stated drolly, quietly, while giving the Ranger a wink of one green eye before scooting to his twin to tend the sling wrapped around Elladan’s arm.

“It is not his glares that worry me.” The human regretted his slip of tongue the moment it came out. He did not intend to rile his brothers by telling them of the Silvans’ violent welcome the night before.

“The Wood-Elves believe us to have some blame in Legolas’ condition,” Elrohir surmised correctly. Tying off his twin’s sling with a hard yank of the thick cloth that bound it, and then casting the Ranger a knowing, poignant smile, the younger twin evinced that he could guess what had occurred the previous night while the twins were not in the clearing with the humans. He said, “If we had not met Salneril in the forest while hunting, you might have paid the price for the mercenaries’ ills. We might never have known that there were warriors in the forest, much less with you by the cave, if Salneril had not happened upon us.”

The younger twin did not mention Jalian, who, Estel saw, was feeding the horses left by the dead mercenaries – the disfigured man would have deserved whatever vengeance the Wood-Elves would have bestowed upon him, had not Legolas already pardoned the mercenary for his role in the horrifying debacle of Ament’s failed plans. As if feeling the Ranger’s eyes upon him, Jalian peered from around the nickering stallion’s head, flashing the trio of brothers an uneasy grin before returning to his task of giving the horses water.

“I would have paid for my own ills,” the Ranger retorted, returning the mercenary’s nervous smile before staring down at his wrapped hands, “which would only have been just."

A brief touch to his shoulder roused the Adan from his guilty reverie. “Perhaps your decisions were not the best, Estel. We do not know, and cannot know. Maybe there was some way to halt Ament from using the goblet while still keeping Legolas safe.” Shrugging his shoulders, the younger twin replaced his healing items back in his bag, before tossing the bag with the others they had removed from the horses for their short reprieve from riding. “It has happened,” Elrohir intimated as he closed his eyes and rested his back against the tree behind him, not willing to elucidate on what had happened, for what he spoke of was clear: Legolas’ torment at the hands of the mercenaries, but most importantly, the assault the Prince suffered from Ramlin. “Nothing can change what has happened.”

Aragorn did not know if his brothers still blamed him for the Prince’s circumstance, but they offered solace to him now. Elladan spoke, as well, saying, “Your guilt does not help Legolas.” Straightening his arm out, and thereby removing from it the sling Elrohir had only just rewound around the limb, Elladan added as he settled his back against the tree beside his twin, “And we are proud of you, muindor. You have acted nobly.”

“Indeed.” Elrohir opened his eyes, smiling warmly at Aragorn. “We are very proud of you, Estel, as will father be. You can…” the twin trailed off, whacking his identical brother on the leg when noticing that Elladan had removed his sling. “Elladan! Your broken collarbone is not healed, and you should not use this arm!”

“I will not be able to use this leg, either, if you hit me again!” With a huff, Elladan slid his arm back into the sling, though Elrohir began to fret over his twin, fixing the cloth once more as he reprimanded his elder brother under his breath.

 _If the Dark Lord himself materialized and asked for directions, Elladan and Elrohir would quarrel about which way to send him._ He listened to the twins, enjoying their odd show of affection, and deliberating their assurances to him. _I am not sure that Ada will be proud of me, as the twins say._ That his brothers no longer censured their human brother regarding the Wood-Elf’s ruin was a relief to Aragorn; he did not need them to remind him of the shame he carried for abetting the Prince’s attackers, for the shame was foremost on his mind.

Harsh, painful barks of coughing startled the Ranger from his amusement at the twins’ bickering and stilled his wandering thoughts. A fit of coughing had taken Legolas, whose body shimmied with the effort of his lungs’ vain attempt to fill with air. _Someone sit him up,_ the Ranger thought to himself, waiting for one of the twins to demand such a thing, or for the Wood-Elves to remember the Ranger’s advice from the night before. _He cannot breathe lying down._

All the warriors save Salneril knelt around their sovereign, encircling him as if each meant to help, but none knew what to do for the Prince. Beside the Adan, the younger Noldo twin shifted with each cough Legolas sputtered – Elrohir’s twitchy and tense behavior, the effect of both his worry for Legolas and the consciousness the twin shared with the fading Silvan, was quickly mounting as his agitation increased. Frothy, pink liquid, a mix of the blood and mucus that filled the dying Legolas’ lungs, bubbled out of the archer’s mouth as it had been doing over the last two days. Neither the gentle words of encouragement nor the bungling attempts of the Wood-Elves to wake the Prince seemed to be working, and finally, when Naiahim pulled free a bladder of water to give Legolas a drink, Aragorn could stand it no longer.

The Ranger rose unsteadily from where he had been sitting by his brothers, and hobbled to where the Wood-Elves surrounded the fading Prince of Mirkwood. _Legolas is having a hard enough time surviving his faer’s maladies. The Prince does not need his fellow warriors’ incompetence in aiding his physical injuries to be what kills him._

“Estel,” one of the twins whispered fiercely, trying to stop the Ranger from interfering.

The Adan ignored his brother’s gentle warning, for Naiahim already had the bladder uncorked and ready to pour the water into the Prince’s gullet. _He will drown Legolas!_

“Let me see him,” Estel demanded, not waiting for their compliance before he was kneeling beside Legolas, having shoved two of the Wood-Elves none too gently out of his way before settling in the grass next to the Prince. “He needs to sit, and he should not be given water while he cannot even breathe,” the Ranger complained, not waiting for assistance before he had pulled the Prince’s body up.

Hanir aided the human, however, by sliding behind the fallen Wood-Elf to prop the archer into sitting. She acted just in time, for a fist gripping the back of his collar told Aragorn that his presence was not welcomed, and as the Ranger was hauled away from the Prince, Estel’s hold on Legolas was broken. Fortunate for the Prince’s well-being, Legolas fell back into the she-Elf’s waiting arms and not back to the ground.

Legolas was now breathing better for the Ranger’s efforts, but Naiahim neither noticed nor cared, for he spat, “Do not touch him, human.” Estel was jerked backwards by the hand twisted into the leather collar of his overcoat. Unable to get his feet under him to stand, the Ranger was dragged several steps away from the Prince before, with a yank of his shoulders, he wrested the leather from the Wood-Elf’s hand. Promptly, the human fell to the ground, landing with a thud, though he was now free of Naiahim: he moved quickly to avoid the Wood-Elf’s attempt to grab hold of him, only to back into the legs of Elrohir.

The twins were behind their human brother, their hands on the hilts of their swords though they did not move to lift them. “He was only helping Legolas,” Elladan argued quietly, clearing the few feet between Naiahim and Aragorn such that he stood between the Adan and Wood-Elf, blocking the Ranger’s view of the hateful scowl Naiahim wore.

 _He looks more like Ament every moment,_ the Ranger mused again when finally he could see the blond warrior once more. _Except Ament hated Elves and this Elf hates men._ Shaking his head in dark amusement, the healer let Elrohir aid him into standing, allowing the younger twin to step in front of him, too, though it normally would have annoyed the Ranger to be the victim of the twins’ over-protection. Now, though, diplomacy was needed, and Aragorn was in no condition to reason with the irrational Naiahim. _And much like Ament, Naiahim needs someone to set his bigoted thinking to rights._

“I do not want the human near Legolas. He has endured enough of the foul human’s handling, and will not endure it while I still breathe!” Having no qualms about engaging in battle with the Noldor, or the Ranger, at least, Naiahim stepped forward despite the two Elven Lords standing between him and Aragorn, his own gleaming sword already brandished.

“Enough. Let the Noldor aid the Prince,” Captain Salneril called. The leader had not deigned to interfere with the scuffle that had occurred, nor did he sound overly interested in keeping Naiahim from killing Aragorn or the Noldor. Indeed, Salneril merely glanced towards them and then turned back to brushing the lathered coat of his horse. “I will not return to the King, Naiahim, to tell Thranduil that his son has died from neglect because your grudges kept aid away from him. Hold your tongue, and hold your temper in check.”

Naiahim, as if he were actually some feral and rabid animal rather than just appearing like one, bared his teeth in a show of hatred towards the Noldor and Ranger before complying.

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Unaware that time had passed since he had last been awake, the Wood-Elf woke to the sounds of argument and anger, and immediately Legolas thought, _Naiahim. We are found._ Why the Wood-Elves sounded infuriated and what cost this may demand from the humans and Noldor soon followed Legolas’ remembrance of their being found, and so the Prince’s consciousness crawled from comforting insentience. His eyes focusing, Legolas looked through the blur to find that above him, the sky was lightening – this in itself confused the befuddled Prince, and he thought, _Was it not night when last I was awake?_

In trying to ask this question aloud, the Prince could only moan. Legolas panicked, struggling against Hanir, though she tried to hold him to her, to keep him from moving. They could not understand him; he would not be able to stop his fellow Elves from killing the mercenary and Ranger. The soft body behind him shifted, and Legolas’ view of the argument changed, as well. Naiahim stood before Elladan, Elrohir, and Strider, his sword drawn. _He will kill them._

Although he attempted to speak, to gain the attention of the Elves and human, and to stave off the ensuing altercation, it was Hanir who finally stopped the shouting, for she shouted herself, “Quiet! He is waking!”

The warriors, Noldor, and a lone human crowded around the Wood-Elf, standing together as if nothing untoward had been happening moments before. _They are well,_ the relieved Prince thought, his panic dissipated at seeing that Strider looked no worse than last the Silvan had chanced to see him, and that the Noldor and Jalian were unharmed. _How long have I been unconscious?_

The Ranger was soon kneeling down beside Legolas, and the archer’s head lolled to the side as he attempted to face the human. Taking the Elf’s forearm in hand, Strider told the Prince, “I am glad to see you awake once more.”

Although he opened his mouth to speak, no air could he find to push the words past his chafed lips. Instead, the Prince formed his features into some semblance of a smile, not realizing how ghoulish he appeared, the bruised skin of his face too thin to hide his prominent cheekbones and proud chin, such that he seemed a macabre sight to the concerned friends around him. His head rolling another time where it rested against Hanir’s shoulder, the Wood-Elf turned to face the Captain of the King’s warriors; frowning to Salneril, the Prince wanted desperately to explain to the Captain that the Noldor and humans were friends.

Whether the Captain understood his Prince’s objective or not, Legolas did not know, but Salneril replied just the same, saying, “We are escorting you, the Noldor, and the humans to your father, Prince Legolas. By tomorrow night, you will be home.”

It was as much guarantee for his friends’ safety as Legolas could hope for at the moment.

“…the King will want to see you, Prince Legolas. Do you not wish to greet your father? You must stay awake,” someone told him. Their voices were coaxing, and confusing. The Noldor, human, and Wood-Elves spoke at once, asking and telling the Prince different things, none of which Legolas could understand.

He _did_ want to see his father, and he certainly did not wish to die. However, Legolas was finally freed of responsibility. With Ament dead, the goblet in the honorable keeping of the Noldor, and the twins and humans on their way to Eryn Galen, accompanied by the Silvan warriors who would now see to his friends’ safety, Legolas let himself drift in the absolvitory freedom of death.

He could die now. His presence was no longer needed. Not even when the Ranger began to pat the side of the Prince’s face, nor when Naiahim, his anger at the humans and Noldor forgotten, began to say the archer’s name in worried repetition, did Legolas try again to speak.

He did not wish to die, not from grief or the pains and injuries of his wrecked body, but unlike his choice to remain in the hands of the mercenaries, or his choice to allow Tirn to trade places with his Prince, this time, the Wood-Elf knew it might no longer be his choice to live or die. Legolas’ duty was over, his impetus for living lessened with each difficult exhale of the short breath in which he could barely manage to take. As the fog descended over his thinking, tempting him into sleep with the soothing song of the rush of water over rocks and the odd smell of salt behind which the Prince could not fathom the meaning, the Wood-Elf was certain his life was over, as well.

  
  



	45. Chapter 45

After yesterday morning’s brief confrontation between Estel and the angry, volatile Naiahim, the tension between the Wood-Elves, Noldor, and humans was growing unbearable. Although the Wood-Elves had finally relented into allowing the Noldor to help the Prince, it was only because Legolas himself, awake in short-lived interludes, had not balked at having the Noldor near him. The Ranger, too, was no longer banned from coming close to the Prince, for Legolas had reached for the human and smiled often at Estel during their breaks from traveling. Such friendly actions had left no doubts that Aragorn had not been the one to harm Legolas; and yet, the Wood-Elves held no better opinions of either the twins or Ranger, and remained wary of them nonetheless.

While they had stopped more often once Legolas was awake, they never stopped their fast-paced journey for longer than it took the ailing Prince to be treated and better situated. It had been clear since Legolas had awoken that he wished to ride with no one: understanding, Elladan assumed, from her experience with her sister’s similar despair, Hanir had been able to convince Legolas to ride with her. The reason why Legolas did not wish to ride before any of the male warriors was obvious, but no one caused a fuss about the matter, for the Prince’s sake.

 _He could never have ridden alone,_ the elder twin contemplated, watching Legolas’ eyes as they slid closed again. The reprieve from consciousness would not last long, and soon the Prince would startle awake, only to be soothed by a few whispered words from Hanir. _I am glad that the Wood-Elves showed when they did, for their help was needed._

The Prince was merely too weak to be kept busy. They had nothing for him to do to keep him active and awake. But it was not only physical weakness that prevented Legolas from participating in their brief camps – the Wood-Elf Prince no longer tried to speak with them, did not respond to their questions or pleas for him to remain awake, and not even Aragorn could draw Legolas from his stupor. He barely moved, save when his body shook from his constant coughing, or when his hand would fumble at the too loose cloth of his borrowed tunic to find there the leaf-blazoned gold medallion that hung from his neck.

That they could not keep the Prince occupied, and therefore keep in the Silvan’s fading mind the sense of duty that had sustained him thus far, frightened Elladan. His chest ached – not from injury, but from the constant barrage of despair he felt from his twin, who he knew was accruing pain and misery from the dying Prince. At all times, Elrohir was connected to the Prince’s desolate thinking, and Elladan could feel his twin’s reciprocal despair.

_Just a little while longer. We are almost there._

Patting the neck of his horse, Elladan thanked the beast silently for its cooperation. While Elven horses had endurance beyond the breeds that mortals rode, the band of weary travelers had pushed their mounts for days before this journey home, and now, when it was most imperative that they arrive in Mirkwood quickly, the horses were just as exhausted as their riders. But as if understanding the severity of the situation, the horses had refused to allow their fatigue to slow them.

They were passing the outer limits of Eryn Galen’s main populace, and in a few hours, they would arrive at Thranduil’s mountain palace.

Even had Captain Salneril not told them this only moments before, Elladan would have known. While anxious for the welfare of the Prince, and for the twins, who were anxious also for the welfare of their human brother, the moods of the travelers were more relaxed. Moreover, the feeling of being spied upon had slowly lessened until now, instead of the eyes of spiders, Elladan expected to be spied upon by Wood-Elves in the trees above. Indeed, no sooner had he thought this than he heard a shout of welcome from overhead to the warriors below.

 _We must be passing the guards’ stations surrounding the borders._ As he rode under from where the voice was emanating, Elladan looked into the tree above, but could see no one. Suddenly, more Wood-Elves called their surprised greetings overhead: Elladan heard the joy in their voices as they passed under them. The Silvan Elves were ecstatic to see their Prince returned, or so their merry calls of welcome intimated to Elladan. _Legolas is much loved in Eryn Galen,_ the elder Noldo thought to himself, cheered by the show of love and affection for the Prince, for such adoration was exactly what Legolas needed.

The closer they drew to the palace, the more Silvan seemed to pour out from between the trees. As their homes were hidden in the boughs above or carefully shrouded by foliage on the ground, it seemed to Elladan that the Wood-Elves sprang from the trees themselves. He would not have been surprised if this had been true. _The Silvan are an odd folk!_ Although he had met Wood-Elves before, those times were usually in battle, or as messengers – not within the Silvan’s own habitat. Peering at the travelers with unabashed curiosity, they followed the ambling parade of horses, Noldor, men, and fellow Wood-Elves, all of them wanting to know of their Prince.

In addition to never seeing so many Silvan in all his years, Elladan had never been to Mirkwood in that time, either: the view of Thranduil’s palace, carved into the mountainside and lit by the ocher light of the setting sun, was a sight that the elder twin would not soon forget. The mountain towered over the forest in an imposing display of natural, raw beauty. The effacement of the window shafts and chimney openings by phlox, vines, and carefully positioned rocks made the otherwise conspicuous evidence of habitation unnoticeable. Indeed, had one not seen the great, fabled magical gate or the ostentatious portico, which was made of stone carved to resemble the woods outside and inlaid with gold leafing, or had one never heard of Thranduil’s mountain palace, the mountainside itself would appear as ordinary as any other, save for the occasional drift of smoke erupting at random from various flues along the verdant and rocky incline.

 _It looks as if the whole mountainside were smoking pipe-weed!_ Laughing lightly at himself, and feeling a millennium younger at the magnificent spectacle, Elladan turned to face his twin, who rode close beside him. But seeing Elrohir’s downcast and worried face, Elladan kept his amused ponderings to himself.

“Legolas is home, brother,” he whispered to his twin, his words no louder than the sonorous, lazy rushing sound of the Forest River.

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It was to this very sound the Forest River was making that Aragorn listened as they rode over the bridge that spanned said river. The Ranger remembered quite clearly that Legolas had mentioned the Forest River in connection to his grief, but Estel could not recall how so.

“I am glad for it,” he heard Elrohir reply to his twin’s reassurance, the younger twin’s enthusiasm lacking, though Aragorn knew his brother’s words were true. “Legolas needs to be home.”

As they passed through the enchanted gates, which were open at this time of night to allow free passage for the Silvan to make their way to and from the palace, Aragorn looked behind them. Still, the Wood-Elves followed them and more were amassing. In front of them, it was apparent that word of Legolas’ arrival had already reached the palace, for throngs of Elves were already milling about the courtyard – cries of questions for the riders as they went by, well-wishing for the fading Prince, and fearful whispers over the somnolent Legolas’ condition, were a sea of lilting, musical Elven voices. _I wonder if King Thranduil has yet been informed that his son is home._

Estel glanced over at Legolas: the Prince was not sleeping, but his eyes were unfocused, his acknowledgment of the ruckus springing up quickly in the courtyard was nothing more than the occasional flicker of a frown of confusion. They were losing the golden warrior.

His eyes already tearing at the thought, Aragorn told himself, _It is as Elladan says. Legolas is home, and at least he will be with his father and friends as he dies._ It was cold comfort for the Ranger, who selfishly did not wish to lose his new friend, especially not when the vile deeds forced upon Legolas were the Adan’s fault, by his own reckoning.

A sudden uproar manifested from the crowd, some of whom had turned to gaze up at the roof of the portico, which Aragorn realized was no mere roof, but a veranda for the level above the ground floor of the palace. Leaning over the handrail of the adorned patio, a fair, golden-haired Elf was peering down at them. A moment later, the Elda was gone, having fled across the veranda and to the doors that would lead the Elf back inside the palace.

 _He must be Thranduil,_ the Ranger told himself wryly. The resemblance between son and sire could not have been mistaken.

In the center of the courtyard, the Captain and his warriors stopped their horses, which still encircled the Noldor and humans. The twins sat in their saddles with their backs straight, for they were Elven Lords, after all, and were used to fanfare and diplomatic negotiations. The Noldor would not be dismounting until they knew that Thranduil would welcome them into his home, and the warriors would not dismount until they knew they would not need to escort the trespassing twins and humans out of the Mirkwood Forest.

Soon, the uproar of voices swelled and then calmed into a hush: the celestial-engraved doors to the King’s palace were thrown open, and the woodland sovereign walked out, his grim disbelief dissipating as he saw his son sitting before Hanir on the she-Elf’s horse.

Obviously, the King had not eaten or slept since his son’s disappearance, and it well showed on the Elf Lord’s face. Never had Aragorn seen an Elda looked so tattered and fraught. _Well,_ Aragorn amended, _never before Legolas. Were Thranduil’s hair a shade lighter rather than darker, and Legolas a hand taller, he and Legolas could be twins._ Heedless of whether his actions were unkingly or not, Thranduil hastened down the courtyard steps, his robe blowing behind him as he strode purposefully towards the travelers.

Thranduil had lost much over the years: the toil of being ruler in a land forsaken, it seemed, by all but those who remained there to fight the Dark forces corrupting it, and the losses of his fellow Elves, not to mention his wife, friends, and family to these foul forces, had incited the King’s acceptance of his son’s death. Aragorn could see it in Thranduil’s surprise to see his son alive now. As he approached them, the ruler’s downtrodden visage lifted, and he smiled even as he began to weep. With none in the courtyard daring to draw closer to the travelers out of respect for their King, Aragorn had a clear view of the sovereign as he finally arrived at his son’s horse.

“Legolas,” Thranduil whispered, reaching up to where the Prince sat in front of Hanir, staring lifelessly ahead of him. The sight of the weeping King and stricken Silvan finally caused the swelling moisture in Aragorn’s eyes to well over.

As he had done the morning of the day before, Legolas beamed, his eyes suddenly lucid and his bruised and emaciated face lighting into a genuine, albeit harrowing smile. “Ada.”

In trying to reach his father, Legolas climbed ineptly from Hanir’s horse, a feat that Legolas could never accomplish on his own. The Prince only slithered down one side of the horse’s belly, his body suddenly slack as his waning consciousness fled him again from vertigo, or perhaps because his chest became twisted in his fall and his breath shortened. Hanir tried desperately to hold the Prince aloft before he fell to the flagstones underfoot. Aragorn’s breath caught in his own chest, and he nearly leapt from his horse to aid the Silvan.

However, Thranduil had already caught the young Elda by the time the thought to help Legolas had crossed Aragorn’s mind. Falling to his knees in the courtyard as he lowered Legolas to the ground with him slowly, the King cradled the Prince to him as if he were a babe. Legolas did not move, did not try to speak to his father, nor did he seem aware of what was occurring, for his eyes were now closed and his breathing low.

“My son,” the King whispered, smiling down at Legolas.

The King then stared up to the band of brothers, his tear-streaked face, so much like Legolas’ fair and stately countenance, was filled with questions and fear of the answers. Thranduil looked at each of them, and perhaps seeing in them the same heartache as he felt himself, the King only pulled the unresisting Prince closer, standing with the young Wood-Elf’s limp body still in his arms.

Taking the cue from his brothers, both of whom were dismounting to greet the woodland sovereign respectfully, Aragorn slid from his own horse, groaning a bit as his overtaxed and aching muscles were forced into carrying his weight again.

“King Thranduil,” Elrohir began, “mae govannen, your Majesty.” Glancing towards his twin, the younger Noldo explained, “I am Elrohir Elrondion, and this is my brother, Elladan.” Again, Elrohir looked to Aragorn and Jalian as a means to indicating of whom he was speaking, and told Thranduil, “He is a Ranger, Aragorn, and this human is of Laketown, named Jalian.”

Elrohir had omitted mentioning to the entire courtyard of onlooking Elves that he and Elladan were adopted brothers to Estel; the younger twin had also avoided telling anyone of Jalian’s place in Legolas’ disappearance. A courtyard full of worried Elves was hardly the place to be sharing such sensitive information.

Thranduil only nodded, returning the greeting with understandable half-heartedness. “Mae govannen, sons of Elrond, Master Humans.” Hefting the unconscious Legolas in his arms, and looking very much as if he wished to run from the courtyard, rather than exchange inane pleasantries with his uninvited guests, Thranduil implored, “You will tell me what has happened to my son?”

It was not a question. “Of course,” Elladan told Thranduil, bowing slightly as he added, “we will await your summons, your Majesty, and give thanks for your hospitality.”

The King eyed the elder twin’s bandaged arm and head, the Ranger’s bloodied clothes, his pale, scabbed, and contused face and neck, and the weariness of the four travelers. Turning to Captain Salneril, who had come to stand beside his King during the stilted conversation, Thranduil told the Captain, “See to it that our brethren and guests are taken to the healers, and their horses to the stables.”

Without awaiting Salneril’s response, Thranduil hurried away. The Silvan parted like water beneath a blade – as Thranduil strode through his people, the Wood-Elves moved to let him by, and then closed the rift after he had passed, as if sealing off access to their King and Prince by a wall of Elven bodies. Up the stairs and then inside the massive doors to his palace did Thranduil go, his broken son in his arms.

“Come,” Salneril told them, motioning with his hand for them to follow.

Quickly, the Ranger, twins, and Jalian gathered their bags, allowing their horses to be led away, and then were led away themselves by the Captain. They walked after Salneril, but not up the stairs to the main entryway. They walked to a side door, a simple wooden portal embedded into the bare rock of the mountain wall, hidden in the growing shadows as night fell upon the Mirkwood Forest.

Passing Wood-Elves as they went, Aragorn could feel their questions and instant distrust. Brought home on the brink of death by two Noldor and two humans, the Prince was in dire condition. Legolas’ fellow Wood-Elves, Aragorn could sense from their half-veiled, hateful, and worried stares, were ready to blame him for their Prince’s death; it did not make Estel feel guilty. He blamed himself already, and could not imagine feeling any more blameworthy than he did already.

  
  



	46. Chapter 46

Resting his back on the wall against which the cot he had been given was placed, the Ranger asked, “Where is Jalian?”

“He is probably hiding in a closet somewhere.” Elladan followed his teasing reply with a roguish smile at his twin, knowing that Elrohir would jump to the human’s defense.

Jabbing lightly the tumescent flesh over his twin’s broken collarbone, Elrohir grinned at his brother’s yelp of pain. However, the smile soon faded, for Elrohir realized, _Jalian is afraid that Thranduil will not forgive his part in Legolas’ condition._ Wrapping his twin’s forehead in clean cloth, the younger Noldo said aloud, “I do not blame him if he were hiding in a closet. Other than Aragorn, he is the only human in the whole palace, and he _is_ one of the Prince’s abductors.”

They had been led to a guest room, and at once, the servants of Thranduil had filled the room with food, water, bandaging, and herbs. Despite his desire to crawl into one of the long, soft beds in the room, Elrohir had begun without delay the process of coaxing his brothers into allowing him to see their injuries. He did not wish either his twin or the Ranger to be neglected before meeting with the King, as they did not know when the King would call for them.

A knock upon the door, followed shortly by the entrance of a she-Elf wearing the white apron of the Eryn Galen healers, interrupted the brothers’ time alone. After bowing her head to them, the she-Elf apologized, “Normally King Thranduil would have his own healer attend to his esteemed guests, but our master healer, Filron, is currently with the Prince. However, I am here to offer my aid, should you need it.”

Looking around to each of his brothers, Elrohir estimated what else needed to be done for his twin and the Adan. Nothing could he find, as he had been busy tending their wounds since they had been placed in the guest room, and so told the she-Elf, “I thank you for your offer, my Lady, but we are in need of nothing.”

“Then I will leave you to your rest. I am at your service, should you need me,” she stated with a smile. The she-Elf had no more than touched the door’s knob when someone knocked upon it. Opening the portal slightly, the healer stood back, allowing the one asking entrance to come within the room.

A messenger, an Elfling no older than Aragorn in years, though less mature in the manner of experience, appeared from the small crack of the ajar door. “The King wishes to speak with you,” he told them, looking between the three brothers as if unsure to whom the King referred. His next statement solidified Elrohir’s supposition, for the Elfling added, giving the Ranger a curious stare, “Any of you will do, if some of you aren’t well, he says.”

The Elfling’s straightforward, unintentional insult of Aragorn had Elrohir smiling. _Aragorn would be better off resting, but there is no doubt that he is coming with us._

In fact, Estel had already risen from his seat on the edge of the bed and was smoothing his unruly hair as he hobbled to the door. There would be no question that Aragorn would meet the King, and as the Adan was fed, his wounds clean, and he had already been plied with a brew for his fever, neither Elladan nor Elrohir bothered to argue with the sick human.

“I will have more herbs and bandaging waiting for you upon your return, my Lords,” the she-Elf promised, bowing lightly and then leaving the three brothers.

“Thank you,” the elder twin told her departing form, and then stood at the door with Aragorn to wait for his identical brother.

As an afterthought, Elrohir seized the strap of a bag he had carried in with him. Amongst the tins of herbs, the mortar and pestle, and his dwindled supply of bandaging lay Melfren’s goblet. Unsure as to why, Elrohir shouldered the bag, wanting to take the evidence of Ament and Ramlin’s plans to Thranduil.

They followed the young Elda through the palace. Although carved from the mountainside, the halls were unexpectedly well lit by the moonlight streaming down through airshafts overhead, and the walls were not bare rock, but carved into scenes of eclectic taste. Everywhere there were leaves, flowers, and other scenes of the forest outside hewn into the walls in high relief. The skilled carvings were not a caricature of nature, but homage to it. Elrohir had never seen such a sight.

The Elfling before them would walk quickly as he led the three brothers, but Aragorn’s injuries and fever slowed his walking – the young Elda would stop his quick pace, turn to see how far behind him the two Noldor and human were, wait impatiently for them to catch up, and then take off down the hall again. Had they not been on their way to see Thranduil, and had the circumstances of their stay in the King’s palace been different, Elrohir would have taken the time to marvel at the young Elfling’s enthusiasm, and the beauty of the passage through which they walked.

However, the idea of explaining to King Thranduil why his son was dying of Elven grief, the same grief that had forced the sovereign’s wife into leaving for Valinor, the grief that Elrohir was certain could not be overcome by the injured Legolas, sobered Elrohir’s amusement greatly.

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Thranduil sat in a chair beside the Prince’s deathbed. He held the archer’s limb to him, his own arm twisted through Legolas’ arm, and their hands clasped together. “Sit down, please,” he told them genially, quietly, as if afraid to disturb the unconscious Prince. Immediately, the messenger who had guided them here began to move chairs for his King’s guests, and the trio waited patiently until the Elfling had finished, bowed happily to his King and smiled at Thranduil’s thanks, and then left as quickly as he had come.

“Your Majesty,” the twins echoed each other, sitting in the chairs the servant placed at the end of the bed, and leaving Aragorn to choose the only available seat. He sat in a hard, wooden chair across the bed from Thranduil. Before him on the bed, propped up into sitting by a mound of soft pillows and his skin as white as the sheets on which he lay, was Legolas.

“How does he fare?” _That is a ridiculous question,_ Aragorn berated himself, feeling the fool for having asked it.

“The healers tell me that he will not live through the night.” Drawing himself up to his full height, his face forming into that of a ruler, rather than a father, the King added, “I would know how my son came to be mortally wounded in the company of the sons of Lord Elrond, a Ranger, and a human from Laketown.”

Elladan and Elrohir shared a hesitant glance: Aragorn knew as they did that Thranduil would not react well to their story. However, as Estel believed it to be his responsibility to accept the King’s wrath, the Ranger began speaking, seeking to spare his brothers. “I am a Ranger, as you know. In my travels, I encountered two brothers, who sought a goblet for their own devices, a goblet fabled to make mortal men have life everlasting.”

Elladan reached into the satchel his twin had brought with them and pulled from it the abominable chalice. “It was hidden within an underground tunnel, a tunnel that belonged to the witch Melfren.”

The King smoothed the blankets over Legolas’ chest absently, telling them, “I know of him, certainly. He was a bane to my people, but we have heard nothing from him since before the retreat of Sauron from Dol Guldur.”

“That is because he is dead, your Majesty,” Elladan added, holding the goblet out to Thranduil, who looked at the golden object with disdain, and did not move to take it for further inspection. Nonplussed, the elder Noldo looked at the hateful object himself, turning it in his hands as he continued, “However, Melfren cursed the goblet, such that any who used it would lose himself to the void of nonexistence, while Melfren would return. The mercenaries did not know of the curse, but immortality was the purpose for which the two brothers and their fellow mercenaries wished to obtain the goblet.”

Already they had baffled the King. When they had told each other this story, each had known enough to fill in the missing information not provided; but for Thranduil, this information was irrelevant until it was connected to Legolas. Aragorn set about doing just that, informing the King, “The eldest of the two brothers, Ament, blamed the deaths of his parents on you, your Majesty, and sought revenge against you both to cause you suffering, and to usurp your lands and wealth. He intended to use Legolas as the means for this end, to blackmail you into turning over your title and home to him.”

“Wealth I might have given him, but Eryn Galen? This human must have been a fool to think I would hand over such a thing, or that I even had the right to do so!”

“Not a fool, your Majesty. Ament was mad, as was his brother. They sought only wealth and destruction,” Elladan interjected. The Ranger watched the elder twin replace the goblet back within Elrohir’s satchel; the candlelit room seemed brighter with the vile cup hidden.

Crossing his arms over his chest, and with it drawing Legolas’ arm to his chest as well, Thranduil asked, “You say these brothers blamed me for their parents’ deaths? Why?”

“A band of Orcs attacked Laketown some years ago, mauling a farmer to death in his fields. This man was Ament and Ramlin’s father,” Aragorn explained.

“I remember the incident,” the King told them, shaking his head with his brow furrowed in thought. “But the human was mistaken. Our warriors were on the borders of the forest to keep the Orcs and Wargs from entering Laketown, but some of the foul creatures made it through the lines of warriors. Three Wood-Elves died that day, though I heard of only one human who was slain.”

“Ament claimed that his mother soon wasted away from grief,” Aragorn added delicately, softly, in respect for the Elf who now did the same in the bed around which they sat. “After this, the two brothers were landless and destitute.”

“I would never have considered that the humans would not help their own, though I did not know the children became orphans,” he said. Adjusting Legolas’ torso so that he lay more fully upon the pillows propping him up, the King changed the topic, asking, “These men captured Legolas to exact their revenge against me?”

It was much more complicated than this. “In part, your Majesty. It was Ament’s plan, but he did not abduct Legolas himself. The two brothers I encountered in Fulton, while two other humans, a man named Meika, and Jalian, the human from Laketown, were the ones who took the Prince.”

Thranduil rose from his seat, releasing Legolas’ hand as he charged, “The scarred one is responsible for this?”

Now very glad that Jalian had not come with them to meet the King, Aragorn thought of a way to diffuse the King’s anger, but it was Elrohir, who had remained silent thus far, that spoke. “Legolas forgave him, King Thranduil. Legolas gave Jalian his word that he would receive no punishment for his actions.”

“Why?”

The King’s simple question could not be answered so simply in return; Aragorn sighed to himself, thinking, _I hope, for Jalian’s sake, that Thranduil believes Elrohir._ The mercenary had helped them before and after Legolas’ promise, and it would not be fair for the King to renege on Legolas’ assurance of protection. “Legolas forgave him because Jalian aided us in escaping from Ament’s plans, because he helped Lords Elrohir and Elladan in safely escorting Legolas and me here, and because Jalian had no part in your son’s torment or Tirn’s death.”

Aragorn realized that he had told the King more than Thranduil had expected, for the sovereign sat heavily in his chair, his face slack and his mouth ajar in disbelief. Thranduil asked, “Tirn is dead?” Nodding, Aragorn watched the King’s reaction, and found that the sovereign’s shock became a sad smile as he said, “I knew that if any could find Legolas, it would be Tirn.” Turning his smile down to the dying Prince, Thranduil told the Noldor and Ranger, “Tirn always held his charge as sentry to be his calling, not merely his occupation.”

“He found Legolas, yes, your Majesty, and he died giving his life for his Prince.” After speaking, Elladan reached out to place a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. Although Elrohir gave no ostensible impression of the sorrow he felt for the sentry’s death, his twin could feel it nonetheless, and so offered his comforting touch. “He died a brave and noble death.”

“What of Legolas, and of these men who took him? Where are these men now?”

“They are dead.” Happy to give the King some good news, Estel added, “Two of them by Legolas’ hand, no less, a third from Tirn’s bow, while a fourth one, another man from Laketown who aided Jalian in capturing Legolas, died while trying to aid the Prince and I in escaping.”

“You were captive with my son?” the sovereign asked, his attention turning to the bruises and cuts on the Ranger’s face and neck. “Why would they want a Ranger?”

However much he wished never to tell the King, Estel admitted, “I was not their captive, your Majesty – at least, not at first.” Before Thranduil could question this, and thus become irate, Aragorn explained, “When I met these two brothers in Fulton, I did not know of their plans for revenge. I only knew that they were seeking the goblet, and that with it, they intended to use it against the Elves. To follow them, to find out their plans, I joined their ranks, convincing them I sought the same goal as they.

“I did not know they would capture an Elf, your Majesty,” the young human nearly pled to appease his desire to have Thranduil forgive him, even if he did not condone the Ranger’s actions. “When Jalian and Meika brought Legolas, I would have taken the Prince with me immediately, had not Legolas been poisoned with blueweed, and had not I desired to know of the goblet, to ensure that it would not be used against the Elves.”

Thranduil was listening intently but did not speak, and so Aragorn kept talking to fill the awkward silence, “The mercenaries did not know that the Elf they had captured was Prince Legolas. It was an unfortunate coincidence. Together, five mercenaries, myself, and your son traveled into the south of the forest to find Melfren’s goblet.”

“That would have taken days of travel. You did not try to aid my son in that time?”

Aragorn swallowed thickly but schooled his features to hide the welling tears he felt to be responsible for the next part of his story. “I tried, your Majesty. The mercenary Ramlin was wont to inflicting pain and suffering, and he was obsessed with Legolas, wishing to harm him…” The Ranger swallowed again, though this time it was the bile of the memory that caused his deglutition. “Ramlin attempted to abuse Legolas. I stopped the mercenary, and Legolas fled.”

The King studied Aragorn for a moment, and before the Ranger could look away from the misery and mourning in the King’s stare, Thranduil had turned his gaze back to his son. “You say you stopped this human from harming Legolas, but my son now dies from grief. This mercenary Ramlin succeeded in his vile act, then.”

“He did, King Thranduil, a while later. I could not help the Prince.” Again, the need to receive the King’s understanding caused Aragorn to beseech, “I kept him captive with us, your Majesty, so that I could continue my charade to find the goblet. I needed the brothers to trust me so that I can stop them. It is my fault that Legolas was abused, and that he lies before us now, fading. It is as you say. I should have stopped them, I should have helped Legolas.”

“Estel,” Elrohir admonished gently, “Legolas told us himself that he chose to stay with you after learning of Ament’s plans to exact vengeance against his father.” To Thranduil, the younger twin explicated, giving his young Adan brother another plaintive glance, “Legolas did not wish to leave, and continued as their captive because he, too, wished to find the goblet, to protect you, and to protect the Elves. When we found him, when he learned that the goblet would return Melfren, Legolas fought with us to kill Ament, to stop Melfren’s return. It was his hand that slew Ament before he could become Melfren entirely.”

Thranduil, confused and little more knowledgeable about what had happened than before, patted the Prince’s arm, his contact with his son rarely ceasing, and his vision always returning to the failing Silvan. “The men are dead, as is Tirn, with my son soon to follow – and all for wealth and this goblet,” the King whispered to himself. “I do not understand it, but I wish to hear no more tonight. One day you will tell me all of what has occurred,” Thranduil demanded softly, to which he earned a chorus of various terms of agreement from the three brothers.

Indeed, there was no point in telling the King of the minutiae of the story. Thranduil was overwhelmed as it was, for as Aragorn watched, the sovereign rested his arms against the mattress and pressed his face against where Legolas’ arm lay between his own. The King wept openly, his shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked his body.

The Ranger looked to his brothers for some indication of what they should do; however, his brothers, like him, were looking uncomfortably to him and each other. The Ranger had never seen an Elf cry so overtly before, except perhaps for his brothers, but then, he had never seen an Elven father sitting beside his dying son until this night.

It went against the hopes of a warrior to die in such a way. A warrior was supposed to expire in the battlefield, his weapon in hand, slain while fighting – not dying in bed, languishing from injuries more insidious than can be made by arrow, sword, or axe. _Legolas deserved a better death than this,_ the Ranger thought, but then amended, angry with himself for accepting so readily that the Prince would die, _Legolas deserves better than death._

“Your Majesty,” Elladan said, breaking the silence as he suggested, “we will leave you alone with Prince Legolas. Should you have need of us, we are at your call.”

“Of course,” the King replied, his voice muffled until he raised his head. Tears streaked down Thranduil’s face, and he made no move to hide or wipe them away. “If you’ve need of anything, ask one of the servants.” Standing with his brothers, the human made as if to leave, but the weeping King called to him, “Stay a moment, Ranger.”

He settled back in his seat, casting a worried frown with the twins, who only gave him identical, reassuring smiles, and then walked from the room, leaving him alone with the dying Silvan and his grieving father.

“You could have aided my son,” the King began, his eyes roaming the body of his wasted progeny on the bed.

Forgetting his manners, Aragorn interrupted, longing to explain to Thranduil that he had done what he thought was best, “Your Majesty, I should have aided him, I know. I –“

It was Thranduil’s turn to interrupt, and he held up a hand, which silenced the human at once. “Legolas was a warrior. He has placed himself in danger many times to ensure the safekeeping of our home. Always his heart was set on doing what is good, and not what is good for himself,” the King told him, finally turning to face Aragorn, “but doing what is for the common good, whether it be for his people, or what is merely the just course of action.”

“I am not sure that I gave him this choice, your Majesty.” Estel shifted uncomfortably in his chair, knowing that the King had not heard the whole of the story, but wanting to apologize to Thranduil for his part in it regardless.

The King stroked his son’s hand fondly, his eyes returning to the young Wood-Elf’s bruised and thin face as he told Aragorn, smiling as he did, “Hold no guilt for your decision. Legolas must have trusted you with his life, Ranger; else he would have slain you at the first opportunity to be free.” Taken aback by this frank justification, Estel searched the King’s face for the slightest hint that Thranduil was jesting, but though the King was smiling through his tears, Thranduil was not trying to tease the Ranger. “Tirn held this same conviction for doing one’s duty,” the King continued, leaning forward to adjust the bandage around Legolas’ chest. “It is never easy to send one’s warriors to their deaths, especially when one’s warriors include one’s son.”

Thranduil smiled at the human, gracing him with a smile reminiscent of Legolas’, the Ranger noted. “You made the kingly decision – the right decision. Do not doubt yourself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. One day you will see that your decision was right, and will not hesitate to make such a choice again, even if such actions never become easier to decide. Being a King is a burden, not a blessing, if the King’s heart is true.” The Ranger stiffened and opened his mouth to deny his heritage out of old habit, but the sovereign’s smile grew, and he told Aragorn, “You did not think I would recognize your name? I am familiar with the world of men, Ranger.”

Aragorn fidgeted a moment before the King sighed and returned his gaze to his son. “Legolas and Tirn both made a choice to give their lives for this,” the King told him, the tears in the sovereign’s cerulean orbs springing suddenly once more, slipping from Thranduil’s ancient eyes and down his ageless face. “Their lives are to be given as they see fit, and your cause, _their_ cause – the good of all – was worthy of them. Do not make their actions meaningless with your guilt, for it is an insult.”

“The Prince has instructed me much the same,” the Ranger told Thranduil, thinking of how son and father were alike.

Beaming down at his Prince, the golden King told the human in a subdued, wistful voice, “Legolas has always been wise beyond his years.”

Not knowing what else to say, Aragorn watched the unsteady rise and fall of the Prince’s chest. _This may very well be the last time I see him alive,_ the Adan realized, bowing his head at the thought.

Legolas faded ineluctably from his grief and injury. The Ranger would likely never get the chance to speak with Legolas again, and though Legolas had already forgiven the human, Estel sighed with relief that the King had forgiven him as well. Aragorn’s shame lifted from him, and the King’s words were a welcomed salve to his wounded soul, for if he could not be assured of Legolas’ clemency, then his father’s forgiveness would have to suffice.

Mistaking the Ranger’s thoughtful reticence and stooped demeanor as exhaustion, Thranduil told the human, “Go find rest, Ranger.” Thranduil held the Prince’s hand to his face, turning Legolas’ palm to his cheek in a gesture of unchecked devotion. “Find the Noldor. I would not have them worrying that I have harmed you in some fit of rage,” he told Aragorn, smiling knowingly at the human.

Flushing, for Aragorn had considered that possibility more than once during the journey here, the human nodded, standing at once to leave the King alone with his son. “And Aragorn,” the King called ere the Ranger had opened the door, “thank you for returning my son to me.”

Again, the Ranger only nodded, for his heart, though no longer heavy with shame, could not accept such gratitude. _I should have said goodbye to him,_ he told himself as he walked from the room. _Legolas will not be alive next I see him, I am sure of it._ The burn of tears threatened, for Aragorn had just seen his last of one of the noblest persons he had yet to meet outside of his Elven brothers and father.

The hall was thick with mourning Eldar – whether these Wood-Elves had some purpose here, or if they were only drawn to the hall because their Prince lay in a room nearby, dying slowly from his grief and injuries, was a matter unknown to Estel. They bowed their heads to him as he walked past, or smiled melancholically at him in greeting, their misgiving tangible.

Quickly, Estel followed the twists and turns of the hallways until he had found the guest rooms. _I hope the twins are not here,_ he thought, wishing for time to himself, if only for a few moments.

Inside the room, there was no Noldor or Jalian. He stretched out across one of the cots, listening to the sound of the Forest River outside. _I wonder if Legolas can hear it,_ he pondered. A tear coursed down his bearded face, followed by another, and then one more, until the Ranger was weeping outright.

Aragorn now remembered what Legolas had told him of the Forest River: the Elf had spoken of the Forest River in reference to his grief, having told Estel that the sound, the break of the gentle waves over the rocky shoreline, was lulling him away from the song of the forest, and into death.

But Aragorn now knew better. The murmur of the Forest River had not called Legolas to his grief – it had called the Prince home.

Rolling to his side and rubbing at his watery eyes, the Ranger let his weary body relax, falling into sleep for the first time in many days with shoulders unburdened by guilt.

  
  



	47. Chapter 47

“Aragorn.” The Ranger rolled to his side in an attempt to evade his brother’s voice. The twin only grew louder, and he grabbed Estel’s arm to shake gently as he said again, “Aragorn. Wake, muindor.”

Reluctantly, the Ranger opened one eye, giving his best glare to the twin, though it had no effect whatsoever on Elladan, it seemed, for the elder Noldo was not looking at the human he was shaking. Instead, Elladan was staring across the room, his face fashioned into deep lines of worry. “What is it, Elladan?”

Elladan smiled sorrowfully down to his young, human brother, telling the Adan, “Legolas fades, Estel. He will pass any moment.”

His sleep forgotten in an instant, the human’s body tensed, and his fatigued and febrile mind tried to comprehend what Elladan told him. “How do you know?” the Ranger asked, denying the Prince’s death to himself, for he was unwilling to believe that the valiant Wood-Elf would leave them. Aragorn sat up in the bed, swung his feet off the edge, and began to argue against the fatalistic assurance the elder Noldo held for Legolas’ future.

However, the Adan did not finish his quarrelsome thought, for Elladan turned away from Estel again and faced the opposite side of the room once more. Turning his own head to see at what Elladan was looking, the Ranger found that Elrohir was standing in front of the closed door. With his arms wrapped around his chest, his head hung low, and his face pale, rivulets of tears running down the younger twin’s colorless cheeks, Elrohir was enough evidence to Aragorn that Elladan spoke the truth. The twins knew that Legolas was dying soon: Elrohir could feel the Prince as his life was ending.

“What should we do?”

Again, Elladan smiled at the human, telling Estel, “There is nothing that can be done, muindor, except wait, and hope that Legolas does not suffer.”

Waiting was not a thing that Aragorn practiced well, nor could he sit by while allowing the Prince to die, not without trying to aid him. “Is there not something that can be done, brother? We can talk to his healers. Surely, they have not the knowledge of herbs as you and Elrohir. We can…”

“Estel,” the younger twin whispered firmly from where he stood across the room. “Nothing can be done.”

The younger Noldo’s gift, his insight into Legolas’ suffering, had thus far been a boon to them all. It had aided the twins and Tirn in finding the Prince and Ranger, which had in turn kept Legolas and Estel alive. Elrohir’s visions had drawn Legolas back to them when the Wood-Elf had been in the forest, bereft and lost, and without the desire to return.

For Elrohir, the visions were a curse: Aragorn could see this in the grim stoop of the younger twin’s shoulders and the cheerless glint of the Noldo’s teary eyes. The twin explained, “He is lessening.” Elrohir took a step closer before stopping himself, letting his arms fall to his sides, and then giving the Ranger a look identical to Elladan’s indulgent, comforting smile, adding, “I do not think he suffers.”

Aragorn nodded, and then looked to Elladan for confirmation that the eldest brother was of the same opinion. Elladan was in no better shape than his young brother was, for he appeared just as downtrodden and accepting as Elrohir. Given that the twins shared between them a bond stronger than any that Elrohir could feel with the Prince, it was clear that Elladan was suffering with his twin, that the elder Noldo could both feel Legolas’ grief and Elrohir’s concomitant woe.

“Where is Jalian?” the Ranger asked when noticing that the mercenary was missing once more.

“He has been escorted back to Laketown,” the elder Noldo explained. Alarmed at the idea of the scarred mercenary spending any time with Naiahim, Aragorn prepared to protest but Elladan assured the Ranger, “Only Salneril travels with him.”

Elrohir shared a brief glance with his twin. “We thought it best for him to leave. King Thranduil seems to have absolved you of any wrongdoing, but the Wood-Elves have already learned that Jalian was involved with Legolas’ disappearance. Jalian would not have been safe here after Legolas dies.”

The twin’s causal utterance displayed no doubt that Legolas would not last until the morning, just as the King’s healer had predicted.

_He will die. After all that he has lived through, still Legolas will die._

Feeling the need to be close to the fading Silvan, even should they not be in the Prince’s room with him, Aragorn suggested, “Let us not just sit here.”

Although it was clear that neither twin wished to interrupt the King or his subjects mourning outside in the hallways of the palace, both brothers acquiesced, and soon they walked through the hallways, where Wood-Elves lined the passageways.

_It seems we are not the only ones who desire to be near the Prince._

Some stood in their nightclothes, covered in robes and their hair loose and unadorned. Others were dressed in leather armor and held their bows and quivers in hand, as if they could not be bothered to put them away before attending the impromptu vigil. The Eldar were sitting, standing, kneeling, and all silent as they waited for some word of their Prince.

He stepped carefully over the sleeping form of a small child, who had sprawled out on the carpeted hallway before where his father sat with his back against the stone wall. Doors to chambers along the halls had been opened, their owners accepting the overflow of Wood-Elves into their rooms, where wine was passed, fires burned brightly, but no friendly chattering took place. Save for the intermittent squall of an upset Elfling child, too young to understand the solemnity, nothing broke the eerie silence.

Aragorn had never witnessed such devotion. However, when thinking of for whom this respect and bereavement was intended, the Ranger was not surprised to see it.

“Let us wait here, brother,” the younger twin told his two siblings, herding them together towards a bench near Legolas' door where there was enough room for the injured Elladan and sick Aragorn to be seated. Bowing with respect but offering no greeting, a warrior Wood-Elf rose from the end of the bench, moving so that Elrohir could sit as well.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Elrohir bent over, placing his head in his hands. In return, Elladan laid his hand upon his twin’s back, trailing his fingers in absent comfort between Elrohir’s shoulder blades.

_I wonder if it will not be better for Elrohir for Legolas to die,_ the Ranger thought as he settled in to wait, and then cursed himself for such a selfish idea. He sighed when realizing, _If Legolas knew it would be better for Elrohir, he would no doubt pass on willingly just to ease my brother’s suffering._

They would all rather the Wood-Elf live, but now that there seemed no hope for Legolas, Aragorn only prayed that the Prince’s death would be peaceful, and that he would not be taking Elrohir and Thranduil with him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In abrupt and clear, dulcet tones, a voice erupted in Legolas’ consciousness. The Elf woke to the soft singing of someone nearby. It sang of the river water, of a loving family, and of an Elfling Prince at play. _Ada_.

Legolas drifted on that sound, his mind buoyed in memory and emotion, and smiled to himself as he slept, until the smell of fire burning in the nearby hearth, of the medicines that were spread over his body, and the clean linen wrapped around his multitude of wounds jarred his memory even more, and he realized he was home.

The sheets were dry under him, the air warm from the fire, and Tirn’s medallion, on which were still knotted golden hairs from the sentry’s fair head, lay scratchy against his bare chest. He shut out the sound of the lullaby his father was singing to him and focused on these smells and sensations. _Ada,_ he repeated to himself, his mind revolving around the need to speak to his father.

He may have lived this long to see Ament dead, to ensure his father and home’s safety, and to help his friends to Mirkwood’s palace, but Legolas’ duty was not over, for he had much to say to the Elf beside him. Legolas’ attempts at speech were no more than the soft murmuring moans of his mouth, which had gone dry despite the water his father now trickled between his chafed lips.

_One last task._

The dying Elf only wished to tell his father that he was sorry to be leaving the King alone in Arda, that he would see his Ada again, and most importantly, Legolas did not wish to leave without his father knowing that his son loved him.

But his body was weak, and the words would not come. The Elf could feel his impending demise: it weighed upon him densely, his limbs not merely sluggish or immobile from pain or injury, but lax from a body that had gone too long past its limits, and was now too exhausted to continue. His mind, though aware of his surroundings, was just as overwrought, and he could not seem to concentrate enough to say the words he wished his father to hear.

Prying his eyes open, the Silvan first saw that his father loomed over him. He tried harder to speak, to tell the King of the Ranger, of the twin sons of Elrond, that Jalian had been forgiven, to speak to his father of Tirn’s sacrifice, and to know his father would understand why his son was dying, and that the Silvan was ready to depart.

Thranduil leant his ear closer to Legolas’ moving lips, as if to capture the words the Silvan could not manage the strength to say. Sighing raggedly, the King expelled a short sob and laid his head lightly on the Prince’s chest for a few moments. “I know, my son. I know,” the King whispered, rising again and pushing at the tangled hair on Legolas’ forehead as he assured the Prince with an affectionate smile, “and I love you as well, Legolas.”

And the King did know. Legolas felt his Ada’s breath as it ghosted across his cheek, the frayed respirations growing more vocal as the woodland sovereign began to weep once more. The King was saying his goodbyes, and Thranduil knew that Legolas wished to say the same.

Releasing his hold of Legolas’ arm for a moment, the King moved from sitting beside the bed to sitting upon it. He could feel the weight of his father as the King shifted closer to Legolas, sliding his arm under the frail Prince’s shoulders to draw the young Wood-Elf nearer. Father smiled down at son, and perspicuity passed between them, allaying the last of Legolas’ fears.

His father would be fine. Thranduil believed that a King’s life was not his own, just as Legolas believed a Prince's life was for his people, not himself. Thranduil had tasks and duties to attend, and the King would neither give Ament and his vile accomplices the pleasure of ensuring Thranduil’s death or despair, nor would Legolas’ Ada let Eryn Galen flounder without a leader to guide her.

As the King pressed his forehead to the Prince’s, Legolas closed his eyes and smiled, keeping the image of his loving father in his mind. The cool taste of the fresh water he had been given lingered on his tongue, until he could taste it no longer, for his breathing became more shallow, and the effort to concentrate even on such a simple thing became too hard for the Silvan. But Legolas could feel his father beside him, though this too seemed distant, for his muscles were languid and growing evermore numbed. No longer scratchy against his chest, the medallion sat heavy upon him, weighing his struggling breast down, as the effort to breathe became toil too great. The scent of his father and the fresh air bringing the fragrant smell of the forest, clean with dew from the coming morning, came to him in through the vent shafts – until this, too, did he lose with his last inhale.

Legolas was home, his duty over. He could die now.

The Wood-Elf’s consciousness faded, but it was not the undulating, sorrowful tune of his grieving faer to which Legolas listened as his mind withered, but to the gentle wind that blew outside, rustling the leaves and blowing between the trees in the woods below. Legolas could hear the lifesong of the forest, could feel the trees as they mourned their Prince’s death, and sensed his wooded home’s farewell to him.

Nothing strayed from Ilúvatar’s song. No voice in this mellifluous symphony was silenced forever.

The soft, lilting tenor of his father, singing the very same berceuse the Prince’s mother had sung to him when he was but a babe, overwhelmed Legolas’ senses. He felt to be drowning in the comfort and paternal love his father’s voice held. With his eyes closed, his broken body still, his chest no longer rising, and his every thought and worry now quieted, Legolas only listened, for it was all he could do. He smiled at such beauty, and was glad to have been a part of it, if only for a short moment of the usual long life of an immortal.

The Wood-Elf receded into the welcoming depths of death calmly, having never felt as tranquil as he did then, feeling his heart beating slower, softer in his chest, until the beating finally ceased, and there was no pain, no despair, and no time for him any longer.

  
  



	48. Epilogue

They had only been traveling for three days, but to Elrohir, the expanse between the dense, dark forest of Mirkwood behind them and the light mountains ahead of them seemed to stretch further as their journey went on.

The visions were gone. Elrohir felt the Prince no longer. The grief that had touched Elrohir was absent from the Noldo now, and though he mourned Legolas’ death, his connection to the valiant Prince was forever severed. While he had never wished to end this bond in such a way, Elrohir was relieved from the familiar distress the Prince had carried. Elladan, too, was relieved of feeling his brother’s grief and the sorrow Elrohir had felt from the Wood-Elf and for this, if nothing else, Elrohir was happy while he sat in the grass.

Soon the sun would rise, and it would be time for the brothers to wake the Ranger so that their trip could continue. They had been traveling for several days, and it would take many more before they were in Imladris.

 _Aragorn has a few hours left of sleep, yet,_ Elrohir commented to himself as he eyed the dark sky above him. _He needs the rest if we are to make any distance at all today._

“Ada will be glad that we have returned.” Elladan pulled his bag to him, and then pulled free a roll of weather-beaten leather from within, adding, “And he will be surprised that we have found our reclusive brother and brought him home.” As he gathered also from his bag some thick twine and a darning needle, Elladan cautioned, “Although I do not know that our Ada will be as sympathetic as King Thranduil has been in this matter.”

“Do you think Thranduil wiser than Ada, Elladan?” the younger twin teased happily. “Or do you think Thranduil merely kinder?”

“Of course not, Elrohir!” Sounding offended at the very suggestion that he would imply that Lord Elrond was anything but the smartest, most kind Elf ever to have walked Middle Earth, Elladan huffed, “I did not say such a thing.”

“You worry that Ada will be angry that Aragorn could not keep Legolas from harm.”

It was not mere harm of which Elrohir spoke: their father felt as they felt, and believed that abetting the destruction of another being was a crime unforgivable.

“Yes, Elrohir, and no, as well. Ada will not be angry with our Estel. Ada will realize, as Thranduil has, that Legolas made a sacrifice for something that was greater than himself.”

Although Elladan’s arm was still in a sling, for his mending broken collarbone was not yet healed enough for him to carry weight with the adjoined arm, Elrohir had given up trying to keep his twin from using said limb. Even now, Elladan loosened the sling so that it would not impede him as he unfurled the leather to inspect it. Scrutinizing the tattered front of the long leather cloak, Elladan frowned at his task and continued, “I only meant that I hope our father makes clear to Estel that he is not livid with him, but that he is proud of him, as I know Ada will be. Aragorn carries enough unnecessary burdens. I would not wish to add to his long, hard road in life, muindor.”

Looking over to his human brother, Elrohir watched the Ranger roll to his side in his slumber. The human’s bruises had faded, the shallow lacerations that had adorned his legs were now just scabbed scratches, and the deeper, more worrisome punctures on Estel’s forearm, chest, and belly were not closed entirely, but were no longer infected. Even the burnt flesh where Ament had driven the fiery torch into Aragorn’s stomach and ribs was healing.

The Ranger’s physical health was improving; however, Estel was not entirely well, not yet. Certainly, the human was still in pain from his injuries, and though in his slumber his gaunt countenance was not drawn with sorrow, when he awoke, the lines on their brother’s face would return, the Ranger’s shoulders would be low with grief, for the recent tragedy of Legolas’ death still clung heavy to the human.

 _At least he does not blame himself anymore._ Turning his attention back to Elladan sewing the tattered cloak that Aragorn usually wore, a cloak that Elrohir had ripped while tending the Ranger’s wounds in the clearing where he had found the human seemingly dead not a month earlier, Elrohir shook his head. _I hope that it is as Elladan says, and that Ada can ease his suffering, as Thranduil has seemed to do._

He did not know of what Aragorn and King Thranduil had spoken while the twins were absent in Legolas’ chambers that dreadful night the Prince died, but whatever Thranduil had told the human, it had alleviated Estel’s guilt more than anything the twins had told the Ranger.

And now, after two weeks of recovery, of allowing enough time for respect for the grieving Wood-Elves and to attend a memorial in Tirn and Legolas’ honor, and then another week for Elrohir and his twin to be certain that Aragorn’s fever had truly departed the injured human, the three brothers had left for Imladris. Estel, more than the twins, had needed to leave Eryn Galen: the mourning populace and the distressed King had grown to be too much for the Ranger to endure. Even in the Wood-Elves’ joyful celebration of Legolas and Tirn’s lives, Aragorn had found no comfort.

The twins, however, had found the whole affair mesmerizing. The banquet had been as Elrohir would have expected to be thrown for a fallen Prince and his sentry, but instead of the somber, placid event that usually accompanied death, the grieving Wood-Elves had shed their saturnine mourning. Rather than sulky, tearful processions past the Wood-Elf’s body or a harrowing night of weeping and sorrowful singing, the Silvan had instead thrown a massive, impromptu feast, followed by a night of dancing and music. The next morning, they interred their Prince’s body beside the Forest River, buried along the roots of a silver maple tree. Tirn’s body had been left beside the lake where the Noldor and Ranger had buried it, for his kin had found it a fitting place, once learning that the Prince had chosen it for his sentry and why Legolas had wanted Tirn placed there.

Laughter, wine, and beauty had characterized the Prince and sentry’s memorial, and though he had known the Wood-Elf for only a short time, Elrohir felt he had known Legolas better than most, for he had seen into the Silvan’s faer. This in itself made Elrohir sure that the Prince would have been honored to have his brethren merrymaking at his funeral. For this reason, when the Wood-Elves tried to include the Noldor and Ranger in their sprightly wake, Elrohir and his twin had joined the Silvan without pause.

 _I suppose that death may not affect the Wood-Elves as it would other Elves,_ the Noldo mused as he stuffed the night’s supplies back into his satchel. _They are accustomed to losing their kin in opposition to the ever-present shadow that haunts the Mirkwood Forest._

While wadding his possessions back within his bag, the younger twin’s hand brushed against the hard roundness of Melfren’s goblet. Instinctively, he snatched his hand away from the object. Although the goblet was wrapped in a cloth, hidden between the extra clothing the warrior had brought with him, the younger Noldo did not wish to touch the golden cup. Elrohir did not believe that the goblet could be used again. Its spell had been cast, and the chalice was just that – a chalice, and nothing more. They would take this golden artifact to their father, for they knew that Lord Elrond would have the knowledge to ensure that Melfren’s goblet would never bring the vile witch back. By Elrond, it would be destroyed, as it should.

 _I will be glad to be rid of it,_ Elrohir thought. Even with its malfeasance spent, the twin wished to have the cruel thing no longer. Thranduil had willingly, eagerly allowed the Noldor and Ranger to take the accursed thing with them, for the King had not wanted the object for which his son had died to remain near him. Nor could Elrohir blame him.

He pushed the artifact deeper within his bag, hiding it under other articles and remembering the day they had left Eryn Galen, when the King had kept for himself a different golden object. As the twins and Ranger had said their goodbyes to Thranduil, Elrohir had seen clasped around the sovereign’s neck the telltale shine of Tirn’s medallion, its luminescence nestled amidst the fine folds of Thranduil’s robes, the golden hairs from Tirn’s head still caught in the cord.

Of course, during their time in Eryn Galen, they had explained to the King the medallion’s meaning and the advantageous use of it by Tirn to locate the Prince, and the Noldor, for that matter, and of how this simple leaf-blazoned coin had come to save all of their lives by chance. They had also explained the full story of Legolas’ capture, the Ranger’s involvement, and the twins’ fortunate participation. For his part, Thranduil was no less forgiving or righteous in his acceptance of the details of his son’s torment and demise – he maintained his belief that Legolas had died valiantly, and as the twins and Ranger believed this as well, none had questioned the King’s adamancy. To all who knew him, Legolas was a paragon for the ideation of sacrifice and indefatigability.

But the golden medallion, hanging from the King’s neck where it had hung from Legolas’, and before that from Tirn’s, had confirmed to Elrohir and his two brothers that the Prince and sentry’s death would never be forgotten. The medallion itself, though just a simple coin, had meant more to the King than the memorial or feasts held in Legolas’ honor. For Thranduil, Elrohir knew, the coin symbolized something much greater.

Melfren’s cursed goblet had been desired by Ament and his brother for the love of money and destruction, a desire that could be satisfied by using the simple, albeit imprecated chalice. Tirn’s medallion was the opposite: it was a symbol of desire as well, but not for the desire of gain or ruin. Tirn’s golden medallion had symbolized to the sentry, and now to Thranduil, a love not _for_ something, but love for love itself.

As he watched absently while his twin patched the Ranger’s coat, Elrohir thought of what Jalian had told him in the tunnel, of how warriors of nobility, wealth, or station would never be forgotten, not just by their families, but remembered by their people and future peoples to come. “Glory is for those with wealth, those who are well-known enough not to be forgotten,” the younger twin whispered aloud, his troubled thoughts spilling free of his mind.

Elladan looked up from his stitching, confusion marking his far too pale face. Always ready to argue with his twin, however, the elder brother remarked, “Dear brother, the Darkness, whether it resides in men, in the shadow, or in ourselves, is not fought because it brings glory to oneself, but because it brings glory to all.”

The younger twin smiled suddenly at his brother, his face lighting as Elladan had repeated to Elrohir a reply similar to that which Elrohir had told Jalian in the tunnel. He conceded Elladan’s point without words but with a nod of his head.

 _I wonder what will become of Jalian,_ Elrohir asked himself when Elladan returned to his stitching. He drew his legs up closer to his body, pulling his knees to his chest so that he could rest his chin upon them while still watching Elladan’s sewing. _Jalian changed his thinking about Elves, that much is for certain, though whether it will keep the human out of trouble I cannot say._ There was little chance that the Noldor and Ranger would ever encounter the mercenary again, and Elrohir doubted ever knowing what became of Jalian.

“Damn it,” the elder twin cursed, rubbing the tip of one finger against his leggings. Grinning at his younger brother, Elladan explained, “You were always better at sewing, why do you not do this? You are the one who tore it!”

“I am better at sewing?” the younger twin asked sweetly. “I will remember you said this, next time you complain while I am giving you stitches.” Seeing his brother’s mock hurt, Elrohir laughed joyously.

“Quiet, Elrohir,” the elder twin admonished, grinning as he pulled from his satchel a roll of clean linen bandaging. “You will wake Aragorn, and our dear, sick brother needs his rest!” Casting a suspicious gaze at Estel, Elladan ended in a whisper so soft that Aragorn could never have heard them, “And hand me another roll of bandaging. It will take another to line the length of his coat.”

As he realized his twin’s intent, Elrohir snickered again. Under the guise of stitching together the tatters of the Ranger’s torn leather overcoat, Elladan was tacking to the back of the leather a long, white strip of bandaging. When done, the white stripe against the dark cloth would have the Ranger appearing much as the twins had always claimed him to be – a skunk.

As Elrohir handed his brother a roll of linen from his pack, he grinned his own encouragement to Elladan, his dour mood lifting. _I have always said Estel was one of the skunks,_ the younger twin told himself, snorting his amusement and earning him another lighthearted glare from Elladan for being too loud. _It is high time he looked like one as well as smelled like one._

It might have been too early for such a prank. The Ranger was not fully recovered, and the grief Elrohir and his brothers felt for the Prince was still fresh. However, it was difficult to feel guilty and sorrowful for having lost Legolas, not when the Prince had died as he had lived – nobly, peacefully, and graciously.

 _Besides,_ he thought, _Legolas would not wish for us to remain upset over his death_. _In fact, I am sure he would laugh himself silly to see Aragorn trussed up like a polecat._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aragorn lay still in his bedroll on the ground, not wishing his brothers to know that he did not sleep. _I suppose this is not the same as lying, but even so, I am more adept at fooling my brothers than before._ Usually the twins would know the instant the Ranger had woken. At the moment, neither twin seemed to realize that their young, human brother had heard their every word for the last hour – almost their every word, at least. It was apparent they whispered too quietly for him to hear, for the silence would be broken by their intermittent snorts and chuckles.

Hearing the distinctive sound of the twins snickering softly again, the Ranger grew more alert. He knew he was in for trouble. _They have finally thought of revenge for my prank upon them in Imladris,_ he guessed, smiling into his folded arm and keeping his own breathing and body’s movement regular and soft so that the twins would not know him to be awake. _I will need to be vigilant as we travel home, lest I end up doused in skunk oil, or thrown into the river._

Recalling the Prince’s laughter when learning that Aragorn was the adopted brother to the twin sons of Elrond, the Ranger sighed heavily. _I wish you had been here to see what new scheme my brothers have concocted, Legolas,_ the Ranger thought to the Wood-Elf.

The ground felt unyielding against his shoulder and side, the thin blanket on which he laid was bare coverage between him and the soil of the forest floor. Although Aragorn had grown used to sleeping on the ground, he felt older, his bones tired and his muscles aching in places where he was no longer hurt.

Ament had earned his revenge against Thranduil and Legolas. The mercenaries who had taken the Prince had been evil with a Darkness that was not unusual in the profane times in which they lived, but Aragorn would not succumb to it. He had his own tasks in life to complete, and he would not forsake them.

Something inside him had broken at the Wood-Elf’s death, and now, as it was reforged with the passing of time and the healing of both his body and mind, Aragorn knew that he was not only older, but somehow wiser, though he did not understand how this would be so. Just knowing the Prince had changed the Ranger. It was as his brothers’ had only just agreed between themselves: Aragorn was indeed burdened – the cumbrous burthen that was his to carry as Estel the adopted son of Imladris, as Strider the Ranger, and as Aragorn, the heir to the throne of Gondor, seemed no lighter than before. Indeed, his load seemed heavier, and his world bleaker because of it.

 _I will heed Thranduil’s words and follow Legolas’ example. I may be burdened,_ he told himself as he lay still on the hard forest floor, _but it is my burden to bear, and I will see this duty through to the end._

Rolling onto his back, the Ranger finally opened his eyes to find the sky lightening above him.

  
  



End file.
